The Rim of the Desert eBook (2024)

The Rim of the Desert

The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series:Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, PlotSummary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, MediaAdaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.

The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns","Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations","Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.

The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "Aboutthe Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideasfor Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.

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Table of Contents
Section	Page

Start of eBook	1
CHAPTER	1
CHAPTER I	1
CHAPTER II	13
CHAPTER III	16
CHAPTER IV	22
CHAPTER V	30
CHAPTER VI	39
CHAPTER VII	48
CHAPTER VIII	57
CHAPTER IX	70
CHAPTER X	77
CHAPTER XI	84
CHAPTER XII	93
CHAPTER XIII	97
CHAPTER XIV	101
CHAPTER XV	106
CHAPTER XVI	116
CHAPTER XVII	119
CHAPTER XVIII	127
CHAPTER XIX	132
CHAPTER XX	143
CHAPTER XXI	151
CHAPTER XXII	161
CHAPTER XXIII	166
CHAPTER XXIV	169
CHAPTER XXV	171
CHAPTER XXVI	176
CHAPTER XXVII	189
CHAPTER XXVIII	195
CHAPTER XXIX	199
CHAPTER XXX	209
CHAPTER XXXI	214
CHAPTER XXXII	222
CHAPTER XXXIII	224
THE END	233

CHAPTER

I the manwho never came back
II the question
III Foster too
IV Snoqualmie pass and A brokenaxle
V apples of Eden
VI nip and tuck
VII A night on the mountain road
VIII the bravest woman he ever knew
IX the dunes of the Columbia
X A woman’s heart-strings
XI the loophole
XII “Whom the gods would destroy”
XIII “A little streak of luck”
XIV on board the Aquila
XV the story of the tenaspapoose
XVI the alternative
XVII “All these things will I givethee”
XVIII the option
XIX lucky banks and the pink chiffon
XX kernel and peach
XXI Foster’s hour
XXII as man to man
XXIII the day of publication
XXIV snowbound in the rockies and “Fitas A moose”
XXV the ides of march
XXVI the everlasting door
XXVII Kismet, an act of god
XXVIII surrender
XXIX back to Hesperides vale
XXX the junior defendant
XXXI Tisdale of Alaska—andWashington, D.C.
XXXII the other document
XXXIII the calf-bound notebook

THE RIM OF THE DESERT

CHAPTER I

THE MAN WHO NEVER CAME BACK

It is in October, when the trails over the wet tundraharden, and before the ice locks Bering Sea, thatthe Alaska exodus sets towards Seattle; but therewere a few members of the Arctic Circle in town thatfirst evening in September to open the clubhouse onthe Lake Boulevard with an informal little supperfor special delegate Feversham, who had arrived onthe steamer from the north, on his way to Washington.

The clubhouse, which was built of great, hewn logs,with gabled eaves, stood in a fringe of firs, andan upper rear balcony afforded a broad outlook oflake and forest, with the glaciered heights of theCascade Mountains breaking a far horizon. Theday had been warm, but a soft breeze, drawing acrossthis veranda through the open door, cooled the assemblyroom, and, lifting one of the lighter hangings of Indian-wroughtelk leather, found the stairs and raced with a gentlerustle through the lower front entrance back intothe night. It had caressed many familiar thingson its way, for the walls were embellished with trophiesfrom the big spaces where winds are born. Therewere skins of polar and Kodiak bear; of silver andblack fox; there were antlered heads set above thefireplace and on the rough, bark-seamed pillars thatsupported the unceiled roof. A frieze of pressedand framed Alaska flora finished the low gallery whichextended around three sides of the hall, and the massivechairs, like the polished banquet board, were of crocus-yellowAlaska cedar.

The delegate, who had come out to tide-water overthe Fairbanks-Valdez trail, was describing with considerableheat the rigors of the journey. The purple parka,which was the regalia of the Circle, seemed to increasehis prominence of front and intensified the color inhis face to a sort of florid ripeness.

“Yes, gentlemen,” he continued, thumpingthe table with a stout hand and repeating the gestureslowly, while the glasses trembled, “Alaska’scrying need is a railroad; a single finished linefrom the most northern harbor open to navigation thewhole year—and that is Prince William Sound—straight through to the Tanana Valley and the upperYukon. Already the first problem has been solved;we have pierced the icy barrier of the Coast Range.All we are waiting for is further right of way; theright to the forests, that timber may be secured forconstruction work; the right to mine coal for immediateuse. But, gentlemen, we may grow gray waiting.What do men four thousand miles away, men who neversaw Alaska, care about our needs?” He leanedback in his chair, while his glance moved from faceto face and rested, half in challenge, on the memberat the foot of the board. “These commissionersappointed off there in Washington,” he added.“These carpet-baggers from the little Statesbeyond the Mississippi!”

Hollis Tisdale, who had spent some of the hardestyears of his Alaska career in the service of the Government,met the delegate’s look with a quiet humor inhis eyes.

“It seems to me,” he said, and his deep,expressive voice instantly held the attention of everyone, “that such a man, with intelligence andinsight, of course, stands the surest chance of givinggeneral satisfaction in the end. He is at leastdisinterested, while the best of us, no matter howbig he is, how clear-visioned, is bound to take hisown district specially to heart. Prince WilliamSound alone has hundreds of miles of coast-line andincludes more than one fine harbor with an ambitiousseaport.”

At this a smile rippled around the table, and MilesFeversham, who was the attorney for one of the mostambitious syndicates of promoters in the north, gavehis attention to the menu. But Tisdale, havingspoken, turned his face to the open balcony door.His parka was thrown back, showing an incongruousbreadth of stiff white bosom, yet he was the only manpresent who wore the garment with grace. In thatmoment the column of throat rising from the purplefolds, the upward, listening pose of the fine head,in relief against the bearskin on the wall behind hischair, suggested a Greek medallion. His brownhair, close-cut, waved at the temples; lines werechiseled at the corners of his eyes and, with a lightertouch, about his mouth; yet his face, his whole compact,muscular body, gave an impression of youth—youthand power and the capacity for great endurance.His friends said the north never had left a mark ofits grip on Tisdale. The life up there that hadscarred, crippled, wrecked most of them seemed onlyto have mellowed him.

“But,” resumed Feversham quickly, “Ishall make a stiff fight at Washington; I shall forceattention to our suspended land laws; demand the rightsthe United States allows her western territories; Ishall ask for the same concessions that were the makingof the Oregon country; and first and last I shalldo all I can to loosen the strangling clutch of Conservation.”He paused, while his hand fell still more heavily onthe table, and the glasses jingled anew. “And,gentlemen, the day of the floating population is practicallyover; we have our settled communities, our cities;we are ready for a legislative body of our own; thetime has come for Home Rule. But the men whomake our laws must be familiar with the country, haveallied interests. Gentlemen,”—hisvoice, dropping its aggressive tone, took a honeyedinsistence,—“we want in our firstexecutive a man who knows us intimately, who has coveredour vast distances, whose vision has broadened; aman big enough to hold the welfare of all Alaska atheart.”

The delegate finished this period with an all-embracingsmile and, nodding gently, leaned back again in hischair. But in the brief silence that followed,he experienced a kind of shock. Foster, the bestknown mining engineer from Prince William Sound tothe Tanana, had turned his eyes on Tisdale; and Banks,Lucky Banks, who had made the rich strike in the Iditarodwilderness, also looked that way. Then instantlytheir thought was telegraphed from face to face.When Feversham allowed his glance to follow the rest,it struck him as a second shock that Tisdale was theonly one on whom the significance of the moment waslost.

The interval passed. Tisdale stirred, and hisglance, coming back from the door, rested on a dishthat had been placed before him. “Japanesepheasant!” he exclaimed. The mellownessglowed in his face. He lifted his eyes, and thedelegate, meeting that clear, direct gaze, droppedhis own to his plate. “Think of it!Game from the other side of the Pacific. Theylook all right, but—do you know?”—thelines deepened humorously at the corners of his mouth—“nothingwith wings ever seems quite as fine to me as ptarmigan.”

“Ptarmigan!” Feversham suspended his forkin astonishment. “Not ptarmigan?”

“Yes,” persisted Tisdale gently, “ptarmigan;and particularly the ones that nest in Nunatak Arm.”

There was a pause, while for the first time his eyesswept the Circle. He still held the attentionof every one, but with a difference; the tensenesshad given place to a pleased expectancy.

Then Foster said: “That must have beenon some trip you made, while you were doing geologicalwork around St. Elias.”

Tisdale shook his head. “No, it was beforethat; the year I gave up Government work to have mylittle fling at prospecting. You were still incollege. Every one was looking for a quick routeto the Klondike then, and I believed if I could pushthrough the Coast Range from Yakutat Bay to the valleyof the Alsek, it would be smooth going straight tothe Yukon. An old Indian I talked with at themission told me he had made it once on a hunting trip,and Weatherbee—you all remember David Weatherbee—waseager to try it with me. The Tlinket helped uswith the outfit, canoeing around the bay and up intothe Arm to his starting point across Nunatak glacier.But it took all three of us seventy-two days to packthe year’s supplies over the ice. We trampedback and forth in stages, twelve hundred miles.We hadn’t been able to get dogs, and in the end,when winter overtook us in the, mountains, we cachedthe outfit and came out.”

“And never went back.” Banks laughed,a shrill, mirthless laugh, and added in a higher key:“Lost a whole year and—the outfit.”

Tisdale nodded slowly. “All we gained wasexperience. We had plenty of that to invest thenext venture over the mountains from Prince WilliamSound. But—do you know?—Ialways liked that little canoe trip around from Yakutat.I can’t tell you how fine it is in that upperfiord; big peaks and ice walls growing all around.Yes.”—he nodded again, while thegenial wrinkles deepened—“I’veseen mountains grow. We had a shock once thatraised the coast-line forty-five feet. And anothertime, while we were going back to the village fora load, a small glacier in a hanging valley high up,perhaps two thousand feet, toppled right out of itscradle into the sea. It stirred things some andnoise”—he shook his head with anexpressive sound that ended in a hissing whistle.“But it missed the canoe, and the wave it madelifted us and set us safe on top of a little rockyisland.” He paused again, laughing softly.“I don’t know how we kept right side up,but we did. Weatherbee was great in an emergency.”

A shadow crossed his face. He looked off to theend of the room.

“I guess you both understood a canoe,”said Banks. His voice was still high-pitched,like that of a man under continued stress, and hiseyes burned in his withered, weather-beaten face likethe vents of buried fires. “But likelyit was then, while you was freighting the outfit aroundto the glacier, you came across those ptarmigan.”

Tisdale’s glance returned, and the humor playedagain softly at the corners of his eyes. “Ihad forgotten about those birds. It was this way.I made the last trip in the canoe alone, for the mailand a small load, principally ammunition and clothing,while Weatherbee and the Tlinket pushed ahead on oneof those interminable stages over the glacier.And on the way back, I was caught in fog. Itrolled in, layer on layer, while I felt for the landing;

but I managed to find the place and picked up thetrail we had worn packing over the ice. And Ilost it; probably in a new thaw that had opened andglazed over since I left. Anyhow, in a littlewhile I didn’t know where I was. I had givenmy compass to Weatherbee, and there was no sun totake bearings from, not a landmark in sight. Nothingbut fog and ice, and it all looked alike. Thesurface was too hard to take my impressions, so Iwasn’t able to follow my own tracks back to thelanding. But I had to keep moving, it was so miserablycold; I hardly let myself rest at night; and thatfog hung on five days. The third evening I foundmyself on the water-front, and pretty soon I stumbledon my canoe. I was down to a mighty small allowanceof crackers and cheese then, but I parcelled it outin rations for three days and started once more alongthe shore for Yakutat. The next night I was travelingby a sort of sedge when I heard ptarmigan. Itsounded good to me, and I brought my canoe up andstepped out. I couldn’t see, but I couldhear those birds stirring and cheeping all around.I lay down and lifted my gun ready to take the firstthat came between me and the sky.” His voicehad fallen to an undernote, and his glance restedan absent moment on the circle of light on the rafterabove an electric lamp. “When it did, andI blazed, the whole flock rose. I winged two.I had to grope for them in the reeds, but I foundthem, and I made a little fire and cooked one of themin a tin pail I carried in the canoe. But whenI had finished that supper and pushed off—do you know?”—his look returned, movinghumorously from face to face—“I washungrier than I had been before. And I just paddledback and cooked the other one.”

There was a stir along the table; a sighing breath.Then some one laughed, and Banks piped his strainednote. “And,” he said after a moment,“of course you kept on to that missionary campand waited for the fog to lift.”

Tisdale shook his head. “After that supper,there wasn’t any need; I turned back to theglacier. And before I reached the landing, I heardWeatherbee’s voice booming out on the thick silencelike a siren at sea; piloting me straight to thatone dip in the ice-wall.”

He looked off again to the end of the room, absently,with the far-sighted gaze of one accustomed to travelgreat solitudes. It was as though he heard againthat singing voice. Then suddenly his expressionchanged. His eyes had rested on a Kodiak bearskinthat hung against a pillar at the top of the gallerysteps. The corner was unlighted, in heavy shadow,but a hand reaching from behind had drawn the rugslightly aside, and its whiteness on the brown fur,the flash of a jewelled ring, caught his attention.The next moment the hand was withdrawn. He gaveit no more thought then, but a time came afterwardwhen he remembered it.

“Weatherbee had noticed that fog-bank,”he went on, “from high up the glacier.It worried him so he finally turned back to meet me,and he had waited so long he was down to his lastbiscuit. I was mighty reckless about that secondptarmigan, but the water the birds were cooked in madea fine soup. And the fog broke, and we overtookthe Tlinket and supplies the next morning.”

There was another stir along the table, then Fostersaid: “That was a great voice of Weatherbee’s.I’ve seen it hearten a whole crowd on a meantrail, like the bugle and fife of a regiment.”

“So have I.” It was Lucky Banks whospoke. “So have I. And Weatherbee was alwaysready to stand by a poor devil in a tight place.When the frost got me”—he held upa crippled and withered hand—“it wasDave Weatherbee who pulled me through. We weremushing it on the same stampede from Fairbanks toRuby Creek, and he never had seen me before. Ithad come to the last day, and we were fighting itout in the teeth of a blizzard. You all knowwhat that means. In the end we just kept the trail,following the hummocks. Sometimes it was a packunder a drift, or maybe a sled; and sometimes it wasa hand reaching up through the snow, frozen stiff.Then it came my turn, and I lay down in my tracks.But Weatherbee stopped to work over me. He wouldn’tgo on. He said if I was determined to stay inthat cemet’ry, I could count on his company.And when he got me on my feet, he just started ‘Dixie,’nice and lively, and the next I knew he had me allwound up and set going again, good as new.”

His laugh, like the treble notes of the Arctic wind,gave an edge to the story.

Presently Foster said: “That was Weatherbee;I never knew another such man. Always effacinghimself when it came to a choice; always ready toshare a good thing. Why, he made some of his friendsrich, and yet in the end, after seven years of it,seven years of struggle of the worst kind, what didhe have to show?”

“Nothing, Foster; nothing but seven feet ofearth up there on the edge of the wilderness.”Tisdale’s voice vibrated gently; an emotion likethe surface stir of shaken depths crossed his face.“And a tract of unimproved desert down herein eastern Washington,” he added.

“And Mrs. Weatherbee,” supplemented Fevershamquickly. “You mustn’t forget her.Any man must have counted such a wife his most valuableasset. Here’s to her! Young, charming,clever; a typical American beauty!” He stoppedto drain his glass, then went on. “I rememberthe day Weatherbee sailed for Alaska. I was takingthe same steamer, and she was on the dock, with allSeattle, to see the Argonauts away. It was a hazardousjourney into the Unknown in those days, and sceneswere going on all around—my own wife wasweeping on my shoulder—but Mrs. Weatherbee,and she had just been married then, bridged the partinglike a little trump. ‘Well, David,’she said, with a smile to turn a priest’s head,’good-by and good luck. Come back whenyou’ve made your fortune, and I’ll helpyou to spend it.’”

The delegate, laughing deeply, reached for the portdecanter to refill his glass. No one else sawthe humor of the story, though the man with the maimedhand again gave an edge to the silence that followedwith his strained, mirthless laugh. Presentlyhe said: “But he never came back.”

“No.” It was Foster who answered.“No, but he was on his way out to the Statesat last, when the end came. I don’t understandit. It seems incredible that Weatherbee, whohad won through so many times, handicapped by thewaifs and strays of the trail,—Weatherbee,to whom the Susitna country was an open scroll,—shouldhave perished as he did. But it was you who foundhim, Hollis. Come, tell us all about it.”

Tisdale shook his head. “Some other time,Foster. It’s a long story and not the kindto tell here.”

“Go on! Go on!” The urging came frommany, and Banks added in his high, tense key; “Iguess we can stand it. Most of us saw the ironside of Alaska before we saw the golden.”

“Well, then,” Tisdale began reluctantly,“I must take you back a year. I was completingtrail reconnaissance from the new Alaska Midway surveysin the Susitna Valley, through Rainy Pass, to connectwith the mail route from the interior to Nome, and,to avoid returning another season, kept my party latein the field. It was the close of September whenwe struck Seward Peninsula and miserably cold, withgales sweeping in from Bering Sea. The grasshad frozen, and before we reached a cache of oats Ihad relied on, most of our horses perished; we arrivedat Nome too late for the last steamer of the year.That is how I came to winter there, and why a letterWeatherbee had written in October was so long findingme. It was forwarded from Seattle with othermail I cabled for, back to Prince William Sound, overthe Fairbanks-Valdez trail, and out again by the winterroute three thousand miles to Nome. It was themiddle of March when I received it, and he had askedme to buy his half interest in the Aurora mine.He needed the money to go out to the States.”

Tisdale’s voice broke a little; and for a momenthe looked off through the open door. “Perhapssome of you remember I grub-staked him for a halfshare when he left the Tanana to prospect down alongthe Alaska Range. After he located, I forwardedhim small amounts several times to carry on developmentwork. I never had been on the ground, but he explainedhe was handicapped by high water and was trying todivert the channel of a creek. In that last letterhe said he had carried the scheme nearly through; thenext season would pay my money back and more; the Aurorawould pan out the richest strike he had ever made.But that did not trouble me. I knew if Weatherbeehad spent two years on that placer, the gravels hadsomething to show. The point that weighed wasthat he was willing to go home at last to the States.I had urged him before I put up the grub-stake, buthe had answered: ‘Not until I have madegood.’ It was hardly probable that, failingto hear from me, he had sold out to any one else.From his description, the Aurora was isolated; hundredsof miles from the new Iditarod camp; he hadn’ta neighbor in fifty miles. So I forwarded hisprice and arranged with the mail carrier to send a

special messenger on from the nearest post. Inthe letter I wrote to explain my delay, I sketcheda plan of my summer’s work and told him how sorryI was I had missed seeing him while the party wascamped below Rainy Pass. Though I couldn’thave spared the time to go to the Aurora, he mighthave found me, had I sent an Indian with word.It was the first time I had gone through his orbitwithout letting him know.

“But after that carrier had gone, Weatherbee’sletter kept worrying me. It wasn’t likehim to complain, yet he had written he was tired ofthe eternal winters; he couldn’t stand thoseeverlasting snow peaks sometimes, they got to crowdinghim so; they kept him awake when he needed sleep,threatening him. ‘I’ve got to breakaway from them, Hollis,’ he said, ’andget where it’s warm once more; and when my bloodbegins to thaw, I’ll show you I can make a goof things.’ Then he reminded me of the landhe owned down here on the eastern slopes of the CascadeMountains. The soil was the finest volcanic ash;the kind that grew the vineyards on Vesuvius, and hemeant to plant it with grapes; with orchards, too,on the bench levels. All the tract needed waswater, but there was a natural reservoir and springon a certain high plateau that could be easily tappedwith a flume.”

Tisdale paused while his glance moved slowly, singlingout those who had known Weatherbee. A great gentlenessrested on his face, and when he went on, it creptlike a caress through his voice. “Most ofyou have heard him talk about that irrigation scheme;some of you have seen those plans he used to-workon, long Alaska nights. It was his dream for years.He went north in the beginning just to accumulatecapital enough to swing that project. But themore I studied that letter, the more confident I washe had stayed his limit; he was breaking, and he knewit. That was why he was so anxious to turn theAurora over to me and get to the States. FinallyI decided to go with the mail carrier and on to themine. If Weatherbee was still there, as I believed,we would travel to Fairbanks together and take theValdez trail out to the open harbor on Prince WilliamSound. I picked up a team of eight good huskies—theweather was clear with a moon in her second quarter—andI started light, cutting my stops short; but when Ileft Nome I had lost four days.”

Hollis paused another interval, looking off againthrough the open door, while the far-sighted expressiongathered in his eyes. It was as though his listenersalso in that moment saw those white solitudes stretchinglimitless under the Arctic night.

“I never caught up with that carrier,”he went on, “and the messenger he sent on broketrail for me all the way to the Aurora. I methim on his return trip, thirty hours out from themine. But he had found Weatherbee there, andhad a deed for me which David had asked him to seerecorded and forwarded to me at Nome. It wasa relief to hear he had been able to attend to these

business matters, but I wondered why he had not broughtthe deed himself, since he must come that way to strikethe Fairbanks trail, and why the man had not waitedto travel with him. Then he told me Weatherbeehad decided to use the route I had sketched in my letter.The messenger had tried to dissuade him; he had remindedhim there were no road-houses, and that the tracesleft by my party must have been wiped out by the wintersnows. But Weatherbee argued that the new routewould shorten the distance to open tide-water hundredsof miles; that his nearest neighbors were in thatdirection, fifty miles to the south; and they wouldlet him have dogs. Then, when he struck the SusitnaValley, he would have miles of railroad bed to easethe last stage. So, at the time the messengerleft the Aurora, Weatherbee started south on his longtrek to Rainy Pass. He was mushing afoot, withTyee pulling the sled. Some of you must rememberthat big husky with a strain of St. Bernard he usedto drive on the Tanana.”

“My, yes,” piped little Banks, and hiseyes scintillated like chippings of blue glacier ice.“Likely I do remember Tyee. Dave pickedhim up that same trip he set me on my feet. Hefound him left to starve on the trail with a brokenleg. And he camped right there, pitched his tentfor a hospital, and went to whittling splints outof a piece of willow to set that bone. ‘Iam sorry to keep you waiting,’ he says to me,’but he is a mighty good dog. He wouldhave done his level best to see the man who desertedhim through.’ And he would. I’dbank my money on old Tyee.”

Tisdale nodded slowly. “But my chance toovertake David was before he secured that team fiftymiles on. And I pushed my dogs too hard.When I reached the Aurora, they were nearly done for.I was forced to rest them a day. That gave metime to look into Weatherbee’s work. I foundthat the creek where he had made his discovery ranthrough a deep and narrow canyon, and it was clearto me that the boxed channel, which was frozen solidthen, was fed during the short summer by a small glacierat the top of the gorge. To turn the high waterfrom his placer, he had made a bore of nearly onethousand feet and practically through rock. Ifollowed a bucket tramway he had rigged to lift thedump and found a primitive lighting-plant underground.The whole tunnel was completed, with the exceptionof a thin wall left to safeguard against an early thawin the stream, while the bore was being equipped witha five-foot flume. You all know what that means,hundreds of miles from navigation or a main traveledroad. To get that necessary lumber, he felledtrees in a spruce grove up the ravine; every boardwas hewn by hand. And about two-thirds of thosesluice-boxes, the bottoms fitted with riffles, werefinished. Afterwards, at that camp where he stoppedfor dogs, I learned that aside from a few days atlong intervals, when the two miners had exchanged theirlabor for some engineering, he had made his improvementsalone, single-handed. And most of that flumewas constructed in those slow months he waited to hearfrom me.”

Tisdale paused, and again his glance sought the facesof those who had known David Weatherbee. Butall the Circle was strung responsive. Those whonever had known Weatherbee understood the terribleconditions he had braved; the body-wracking toil underground;the soul-breaking solitude; the crowding silence thatmonths earlier he had felt the necessity to escape.In that picked company, the latent force in each acknowledgedthe iron courage of the man; but it was Tisdale’smagnetic personality, the unstudied play of expressionin his rugged face, the undercurrent of emotion quickeningthrough infinite tones of his voice, that plumbed thedepths and in every listener struck the dominant chord.And, too, these men had bridged subconsciously thosevast distances between Tisdale’s start fromNome in clear weather, “with a moon in her secondquarter,” and that stop at the deserted mine,when his dogs—powerful huskies, part wolf,since they were bred in the Seward Peninsula—“werenearly done for.” Long and inevitable periodsof dark there had been; perils of white blizzard,of black frost. They had run familiarly the wholegamut of hardship and danger he himself must havefaced single-handed; and while full measure was accordedWeatherbee, the greater tribute passed silently, unsought,to the man who had traveled so far and so fast to rescuehim.

“It ought to have been me,” exclaimedLucky Banks at last in his high treble. “Iwas just down in the Iditarod country, less than threehundred miles. I ought to have run up once inawhile to see how he was getting along. But Inever thought of Dave’s needing help himself,and nobody told me he was around. I’d oughtto have kept track of him, though; it was up to me.But go on, Hollis; go on. I bet you made up thatday you lost at the mine. My, yes, I bet youbroke the record hitting that fifty-mile camp.”

Tisdale nodded, and for an instant the humor playedlightly at the corners of his eyes. “Ittook me just seven hours with an up-grade the lasttwenty miles. You see, I had Weatherbee to breaktrail. He rested a night at the camp and lostabout three hours more, while they hunted a missinghusky to make up his team. Still he pushed outwith nearly eighteen hours start and four fresh dogs,with Tyee pulling a strong lead; while I wasn’table to replace even one of mine that had gone lame.I had to leave him there, and before I reached thesummit of Rainy Pass, I was carrying his mate on mysled. But I had a sun then,—the dayswere lengthening fast into May,—and bycutting my stops short I managed to hold my own tothe divide. After that I gained. Finally,one morning, I came to a rough place where his outfithad upset, and I saw his dogs were giving him trouble.There were blood stains all around on the snow.It looked like the pack had broken open, and the huskieshad tried to get at the dried salmon. Tyee musthave fought them off until Weatherbee was able tomaster them. At the end of the next day I reacheda miners’ cabin where he had spent the night,and the man who had helped him unhitch told me hehad had to remind him to feed his dogs. He hadseemed all right, only dead tired; but he had goneto bed early and, neglecting to leave a call, had sleptfifteen hours. I rested my team five, and latethe next morning I came upon his camp-fire burning.”

Tisdale paused to draw his hand across his eyes andmet Foster’s look over the table. “Itwas there I blundered. There was a plain traveledtrail from that mine down through the lowlands toSusitna, and I failed to see that his tracks leftit: they were partly blotted out in a fresh fallof snow. I lost six hours there, and when I pickedup his trail again, I saw he was avoiding the fewway houses; he passed the settlement by; then I missedhis camp-fire. It was plain he was afraid to sleepany more. But he knew the Susitna country; hekept a true course, and sometimes, in swampy places,turned back to the main thoroughfare. At last,near the crossing of the Matanuska, I was caught inthe first spring thaw. It was heavy going.All the streams were out of banks; the valley becamea network of small sloughs undermining the snowfields,creating innumerable ponds and lakes. The earth,bared in patches, gave and oozed like a sponge.It was impossible to follow Weatherbee’s trail,but I picked it up once more, where it came into theother, along the Chugach foot-hills. Slides beganto block the way; ice glazed the overflows at night;and at last a cold wave struck down from the summits;the track stiffened in an hour and it was hard assteel underfoot. The wind cut like swords.Then came snow.”

Tisdale looked off with his far-sighted gaze throughthe open door. Every face was turned to him,but no one hurried him. It was a time when silencespoke.

“I came on Weatherbee’s dogs in a smallravine,” he said. “They had brokenthrough thin ice in an overflow, and the sled had miredin muck. The cold wave set them tight; theirlegs were planted like posts, and I had to cut themout. Two were done for.”

“You mean,” exclaimed Banks, “Davehadn’t cut the traces to give his huskies achance.”

Tisdale nodded slowly. “But the instantI cut Tyee loose, he went limping off, picking uphis master’s trail. It was a zigzag courseup the face of a ridge into a grove of spruce.Weatherbee took a course like a husky; location wasa sixth sense to him; yet I found his tracks up there,winding aimlessly. It had stopped snowing then,but the first impressions were nearly filled.In a little while I noticed the spaces were shorterbetween the prints of the left shoe; they made a dipand blur. Then I came into a parallel trail,and these tracks were clear, made since the snowstorm,but there was the same favoring of the left foot.He was traveling in a circle. Sometimes in unshelteredplaces, where the wind swept through an avenue oftrees, small drifts covered the impressions, but thedog found them again, still doubling that broad circle.Finally I saw a great dark blotch ahead where theground sloped up to a narrow plateau. And ina moment I saw it was caused by a great many freshtwigs of spruce, all stuck upright in the snow andset carefully in rows, like a child’s make-believegarden.”

Tisdale’s voice broke. He was looking offa*gain into the night, and his face hardened; two verticallines like clefts divided his brows. It was asthough the iron in the man cropped through. Thepause was breathless. Here and there a grim faceworked.

“When the dog reached the spot,” Holliswent on, “he gave a quick bark and ran withshort yelps towards a clump of young trees a few yardsoff. The rim of a drift formed a partial windbreak,but he had only a low bough to cover him,—andthe temperature,—along those ice-peaks—”

His voice failed. There was another speakingsilence. It was as though these men, having followedall those hundreds of miles over tundra and mountains,through thaw and frost, felt with him in that momentthe heart-breaking futility of his pursuit. “Itried my best,” he added. “I guessyou all know that, but—I was too late.”

The warning blast of an automobile cut the stillness,and the machine stopped in front of the clubhouse,but no one at the table noticed the interruption.

Then Banks said, in his high key: “Butyou hitched his dogs up with yours, the ones thatwere fit, and brought him through to Seward. Yousaw him buried. Thank you for that.”

Feversham cleared his throat and reached for the decanter,“Think of it!” he exclaimed. “Aman like that, lost on a main traveled thoroughfare!But the toll will go on every year until we have arailroad. Here’s to that road, gentlemen.Here’s to the Alaska Midway and Home Rule.”

The toast was responded to, and it was followed byothers. But Tisdale had left his place to stepthrough the open door to the balcony. PresentlyFoster joined him. They stood for an intervalsmoking and taking in those small night sounds forwhich long intimacy with Nature teaches a man to listen;the distant voice of running water; the teasing noteof the breeze; the complaint of a balsam-laden bough;the restless stir of unseen wings; the patter of diminutivefeet. A wooded point that formed the horn ofa bay was etched in black on the silver lake; thensuddenly the moon illumined the horizon and, risingover a stencilled crest of the Cascades, stretchedher golden path to the shore below them. Boththese men, watching it, saw that other trail reachingwhite, limitless, hard as steel through the Alaskasolitudes.

“At Seward,” said Foster at last, “youreceived orders by cable detailing you to a seasonin the Matanuska fields; but before you took your partyin, you sent a force of men back to the Aurora to finishWeatherbee’s work and begin operations.And the diverting of that stream exposed gravels thatare going to make you rich. You deserve it.I grant that. It’s your compensation; butjust the same it gives a sharper edge to poor Weatherbee’sluck.”

Tisdale swung around. “See here, Foster,I want you to know I should have considered that moneyas a loan if David had lived. If he had lived—andrecovered—I should have made him take backthat half interest in the Aurora. You’vegot to believe that; and I would be ready to do asmuch for his wife, if she had treated him differently.But she wrecked his life. I hold her responsible.”

Foster was silent.

“Think of it!” Hollis went on. “Theshame of it! All those years while he faced privation,the worst kind, tramping Alaska trails, panning inicy streams, sluicing, digging sometimes like anycommon laborer, wintering in shacks, she was livingin luxury down here. He never made a promisingdiscovery that he wasn’t forced to sell.She spent his money faster than he made it; kept himhandicapped. And all she ever gave him was a friendlyletter now and then, full of herself and the gay lifeshe led, and showing clearly how happy she could bewithout him. Think of it, Foster!” Hisvoice deepened and caught its vibrant quality.“A fine fellow like Weatherbee; so reliable,so great in a hard place. How could she havetreated him as she did? Damn it! How couldhe have thrown himself away like that, for a feather-headedwoman?”

Foster knocked the ash from the end of his cigar.“You don’t know her,” he answered.“If you did, you wouldn’t put it in thatway.” He smiled a little and looked offat the golden path on the lake. “So,”he said after a moment, and his glance returned tomeet Tisdale’s squarely, “she has absolutelynothing now but that tract of unimproved desert onthe other side of the Cascades.”

CHAPTER II

THE QUESTION

Sometime, high on a mountain slope, a cross currentof air, or perhaps a tremor of the surface occasionedfar off, starts the small snow-cap, that sliding,halting, impelled forward again, always accumulating,gathering momentum, finally becomes the irresistibleavalanche. So Marcia Feversham, the followingmorning, gave the first slight impetus to the questionthat eventually menaced Tisdale with swift destruction.She was not taking the early train with her husband;she desired to break the long journey and, after theseason in the north, prolong the visit with her relativesin Seattle. The delegate had left her sleeping,but when he had finished the light breakfast servedhim alone in the Morganstein dining-room and hurriedout to the waiting limousine, to his surprise he foundher in the car. “I am going down to seeyou away,” she explained; “this salt breezewith the morning tide is so delightfully fresh.”

There was no archness in her glance; her humor waswholly masculine. A firm mouthy brilliant, darkeyes, the heavy Morganstein brows that met over thehigh nose, gave weight and intensity to anything shesaid. Her husband, in coaching her for the comingcampaign at Washington, had told her earnestness washer strong suit; that her deep, deliberate voice washer best card, but she held in her eyes, unquestionably,both bowers.

“Delightful of you, I am sure,” he answered,taking the seat beside her, with his for-the-publicsmile, “but I give credit to the air; you arelooking as brilliant at this outrageous hour as youwould on your way to an afternoon at bridge.”Then, the chauffeur having closed the door and takenhis place in the machine, Feversham turned a littleto scrutinize her face.

“Now, my lady,” he asked, “to whatdo I owe the pleasure?”

“Mr. Tisdale,” she answered directly.“Of course you must see now, even if I do contriveto meet him through Frederic, as you suggested, andmanage to see him frequently; even if I find out whathe means to say in those coal reports, when it comesto influence, I won’t have the weight of a feather.No woman could. He is made of iron, and his principleswere cast in the mold.”

“Every man has his vulnerable point, and I cantrust you to find Hollis Tisdale’s.”The delegate paused an instant, still regarding hiswife’s face, frowning a little, yet not withouthumor, then said: “But you have changedyour attitude quickly. Where did you learn somuch about him? How can you be so positive abouta man you never have met? Whom you have seenonly a time or two at a distance, on some street—orwas it a hotel lobby?—in Valdez or Fairbanks?”

“Yesterday, when we were talking, that was true;but since then I have seen him at close range.I’ve heard him.” She turned and metFeversham’s scrutiny with the brilliancy risingin her eyes. “Last night at the clubhouse,when he told the story of David Weatherbee, I was there.”

“You were there? Impossible! Thatis against the rules. Not a man of the Circlewould have permitted it, and you certainly would havebeen discovered before you reached the assembly hall.Why, I myself was the last to arrive. Frederic,you remember, had to speed the car a little to getme there. And I looked back from the door andsaw you in the tonneau with Elizabeth, while Mrs.Weatherbee kept her place in front with Frederic.You were going down the boulevard to spend the eveningwith her at Vivian Court.”

“That was our plan, but we turned back,”she explained. “We had a curiosity to seethe Circle seated around the banquet board in thoseridiculous purple parkas. And Frederic bet mea new electric runabout against the parka of silverfox and the mukluks I bought of the Esquimau girlat Valdez that we never could get as far as the assemblyroom. He waited with Elizabeth in the car whilewe two crept up the stairs. The door was open,and we stood almost screened by that portiere of Indianleather, peeping in. Mr. Tisdale was telling theptarmigan yarn—it’s wonderful thepower he has to hold the interest of a crowd of men—andthe chance was too good to miss. We stole onup the steps to the gallery,—no one noticedus,—and concealed ourselves behind thathanging Kodiak bearskin.”

“Incredible!” exclaimed Feversham.“But I see you arrived at the opportune moment,—whenTisdale was talking. There’s something occultabout the personality of that man. And she, Mrs.Weatherbee, heard everything?”

Marcia nodded. “Even your graceful toastto her.”

At this he settled back in his seat, laughing.“Well, I am glad I made it. I could hardlyhave put it more neatly had I known she was there.”

“She couldn’t have missed a word.We had found a bench behind the Kodiak skin, and shesat straight as a soldier, listening through it all.I couldn’t get her to come away; it was as thoughshe was looking on at an interesting play. Shewas just as neutral and still; only her face turnedwhite, and her eyes were wide as stars, and once shegripped the fur of the Kodiak so hard I expected tosee it come down. But I know she failed to graspthe vital point of the story. I mean the pointvital to her. She doesn’t understand enoughabout law. And I myself slept on it the nightthrough before I saw. It came the moment I wakenedthis morning, clear and sudden as an electric flash.If David Weatherbee was mentally unbalanced when hemade that transfer, the last half interest in the Auroramine ought to revert to her.”

Feversham started. He lifted his plump handsand let them drop forcibly on his broad knees.But she did not notice his surprise. They wereapproaching the station, and time pressed. “Youknow it is not a simple infatuation with Frederic,”she hurried on, “to be forgotten tomorrow.He has loved her passionately from the day he firstmet her, four years ago. He can’t thinkof anything else; he never will do anything of creditto the family until she is his wife. And now,with David Weatherbee safely buried, it seems reasonablysure. Still, still, Miles, this unexpected fortuneheld out to her just now might turn the scales.We have got to keep it from her, and if those coalclaims are coming up for trial, you must frame someexcuse to have them postponed.”

“Postponed? Why, we’ve just succeededin gaining Federal attention. We’ve beenwaiting five years. We want them settled now.It concerns Frederic as well as the rest of us.”

“True,” she answered, “even more.If those patents are allowed, he will take immediatesteps to mine the coal on a large scale. And itcame over me, instantly, on the heels of the firstflash, that it was inevitable, if Mr. Tisdale hadtaken advantage of David Weatherbee’s condition—andhis own story shows the man had lost his mind; hewas wandering around planting make-believe orchardsin the snow—you would use the point toimpeach the Government’s star witness.”

“Impeach the Government’s witness?”repeated Feversham, then a sudden intelligence leapedinto his face. “Impeach Hollis Tisdale,”he added softly and laughed.

Presently, as the chauffeur slackened speed, lookingfor a stand among the waiting machines at the depot,the attorney said: “If the syndicate sendsStuart Foster north to the Iditarod, he may be forcedto winter there; that would certainly postpone thetrial until spring.”

The next moment the chauffeur threw open the limousinedoor, and the delegate stepped out; but he lingereda little over his good-by, retaining his wife’shand, which he continued to shake slowly, while hiseyes telegraphed an answer to the question in hers.Then, laughing again deeply, he said: “Mylady! My lady! Nature juggled; she playedyour brother Frederic a trick when she set that mindin your woman’s head.”

CHAPTER III

FOSTER TOO

The apartment Tisdale called home was in a high cornerof the Alaska building, where the western windows,overtopping other stone and brick blocks of the businesscenter, commanded the harbor, caught like a facetedjewel between Duwamish Head and Magnolia Bluff, anda far sweep of the outer Sound set in wooded islandsand the lofty snow peaks of the Olympic peninsula.Next to his summer camp in the open he liked this eyrie,and particularly he liked it at this hour of the nighttide. He drew his chair forward where the stiff,salt wind blew full in his face, but Foster, who hadfound the elevator not running and was somewhat heatedby his long climb to the “summit,” tookthe precaution of choosing a sheltered place nearthe north window, which was closed. A shaded electriclamp cast a ring of light on the package he had laidon the table between them, but the rest of the roomwas in shadow, and from his seat he glanced down onthe iridescent sign displays of Second Avenue, thenfollowed the lines of street globes trailing awayto the brilliant constellations set against the blacknessof Queen Anne hill.

“She is to be out of town a week,” hesaid, “and I hardly liked to leave Weatherbee’sthings with a hotel clerk; since I am sailing on theAdmiral Sampson tonight, I brought the packageback. You will have to be your own messenger.”

“That’s all right, Foster; I can findanother when she returns. I’ll ask Banks.”

“No.” Foster’s glance cameback from the street; his voice rang a little sharp.“Take it yourself, Hollis.”

“I can trust it with Banks.” Tisdalepaused a moment, still looking out on the harbor lightsand the stars, then said: “So you are goingnorth again; back to the copper mine, I presume?”

“No, I shall be there later, but I expect tomake a quick trip in to the Iditarod now, to lookover placer properties. The syndicate has bondedBanks’ claims and, if it is feasible, a dredgerwill be sent in next spring to begin operations ona big scale. I shall go, of course, by way ofthe Yukon, and if ice comes early and the steamersare taken off, return by trail around through Fairbanks.”

“I see.” Tisdale leaned forward alittle, grasping the arms of his chair. “Thesyndicate is taking considerable risk in sending youto the Iditarod at this time. Suppose those coalcases should be called, with you winter-bound up there.Why, the Chugach trial couldn’t go on.”

“I am identified with the Morganstein intereststhere, I admit; but why should the Chugach claimsbe classed with conspiracies to defraud the Government?They were entered regularly, fifty coal claims of onehundred and sixty acres each, by as many differentpersons. Because the President temporarily suspendedAlaska coal laws is no reason those patents shouldbe refused or even delayed. Our money was acceptedby the Government; it was never refunded.”

“As I thought,” said Tisdale softly, addressingthe stars; “as I feared.” Then, “Foster,Foster,” he admonished, “be careful.Keep your head. That syndicate is going to worryyou some, old man, before you are through.”

Foster got to his feet. “See here, Hollis,be fair. Look at it once from the other side.The Morgansteins have done more for Alaska than theywill ever be given credit for. Capital is theone key to open that big, new, mountain-locked country,and the Government is treating it like a boa-constrictorto be throttled and stamped out. Millions wentinto the development of the El Dorado, yet they stillhave to ship the ore thousands of miles to a smelter,with coal,—the best kind, inexhaustiblefields of it,—at our door. And go backto McFarlane. He put one hundred and fifty thousandinto the Chugach Railway to bring out the coal he hadmined, but he can’t touch it; it’s alltied up in red tape; the road is rotting away.He is getting to be an old man, but I saw him doingday labor on the Seattle streets to-day. Thenthere’s the Copper River Northwestern.That company built a railroad where every engineerbut one, who saw the conditions, said it could notbe done. You yourself have called it the mostwonderful piece of construction on record. Youknow how that big bridge was built in winter—theonly time when the bergs stopped chipping off theface of the glacier long enough to set the piers; youknow how Haney worked his men, racing against the springthaw—he’s paying for it with hislife, now, down in California. In dollars thatbridge alone cost a million and a half. Yet,with this road finished through the coast mountains,they’ve had to suspend operation because theycan’t burn their own coal. They’vegot to change their locomotives to oil burners.And all this is just because the President delays toannul a temporary restriction the previous executiveneglected to remove. We have waited; we haveimported from British Columbia, from Japan; shippedin Pennsylvania, laid down at Prince William Soundat fifteen dollars a ton, when our own coal couldbe mined for two and a quarter and delivered here inSeattle for five.”

“It could, I grant that,” said Tisdalemellowly, “but would it, Stuart? Wouldit, if the Morganstein interests had exclusive control?”

Foster seemed not to have heard that question.He turned restlessly and strode across the room.“The Government with just as much reason mighthave conserved Alaska gold.”

Tisdale laughed. “That would have beena good thing for Alaska,” he answered; “ifa part, at least of her placer streams had been conserved.Come, Foster, you know as well as I do that the regulationsearly prospectors accepted as laws are not respectedto-day. Every discovery is followed by speculatorswho travel light, who do not expect to do even firstassessment work, but only to stay on the ground longenough to stake as many claims as possible for themselves

and their friends. When the real prospector arrives,with his year’s outfit, he finds hundreds ofmiles, a whole valley staked, and his one chance isto buy or work under a lease. Most of these speculatorslive in the towns, some of them down here in Seattle,carrying on other business, and they never visit theirclaims. They re-stake and re-stake year afteryear and follow on the heels of each new strike, oftenby proxy. We have proof enough of all this toconvince the most lukewarm senator.”

“You think then,” said Foster quickly,“there is going to be a chance, after all, forthe bill for Home Rule?”

“No.” Tisdale’s voice lostit* mellowness. “It is a mistake; it’sasking too much at the beginning. We need amendedmining laws; we should work for that at once, in thequickest concerted way. And, first of all, ourspecial delegates should push the necessity of a lawgiving a defined length of shaft or tunnel for assessmentwork, as is enforced in the Klondike, and ask forefficient inspectors to see that such laws as we haveare obeyed.”

Foster moved to the window and stood looking downagain on the city lights. Presently he said:“I presume you will see the President while youare in Washington.”

“Probably. He is always interested in thefield work up there, and this season’s reconnaissancein the Matanuska coal district should be of specialimportance to him just now. The need of a navalcoaling station on the Pacific coast has grown imperative,and with vast bodies of coal accessible to PrinceWilliam Sound, the question of location should soonbe solved.”

There was another silence, while Poster walked againto the end of the room and returned. “Howsoon do you start east?” he asked.

“Within a week. Meantime, I am going overthe Cascades into the sage-brush country to look upthat land of Weatherbee’s.”

“You intend then,” said Foster quickly,“to take that piece of desert off Mrs. Weatherbee’shands?”

“Perhaps. It depends on the possibilityof carrying out his project. I have just shippeda steam thawing apparatus in to the Aurora, and that,with supplies for a winter camp, has taken a good dealof ready money. Freighting runs high, whetherit’s from the Iditarod or south from Fairbanks.But spring should see expenses paid and my investmentback.”

“From all I’ve heard,” respondedFoster dryly, “you’ll get your investmentback with interest.”

“Of course,” said Tisdale after a moment,“Mrs. Weatherbee will be eager to dispose ofthe tract; the only reason it is still on her handsis that no one has wanted to buy it at any price.”

“And that’s just why you should.”Foster paused, then went on slowly, controlling theemotion in his voice, “You don’t know her,Hollis. She’s proud. She won’tadmit the situation, and I can’t ask her directly,but I am sure she has come to the limit. I’vebeen trying all day, ever since I knew I must go northagain, to raise enough money to make an offer forthat land, but practically all I have is tied up inAlaska properties. It takes time to find a customer,and the banks are cautious.”

Tisdale rose from his chair. “Foster!”he cried and stretched out his hands. “Foster—notyou, too.”

Then his hands dropped, and Foster drew a step nearerinto the circle of light and stood meeting squarelythe silent remonstrance, accusation, censure, forwhich he was prepared. “I knew how you wouldtake it,” he broke out at last, “but it’sthe truth. I’ve smothered it, kept it downfor years; but it’s nothing to be ashamed ofany longer. I’d have been glad to exchangeplaces with Weatherbee. I’d have countedit a privilege to work, even as he did, for her; Icould have suffered privation, the worst kind, wrungsuccess out of failure, for the hope of her.”

“See here, Foster,”—Tisdalelaid his hands on the younger man’s shoulders,shaking him slowly,—“you must stopthis.” His hold relaxed; he stepped back,and his voice vibrated softly through the room.“How could you have said it, knowing David Weatherbeeas you did? No matter what kind of a woman sheis, you should have remembered she was his wife andrespected her for his sake.”

“Respect? I do respect her. She’sthe kind of woman a man sets on a pedestal to worshipand glorify. You don’t understand it, Hollis;you don’t know her, and I can’t explain;but just her presence is an appeal, an inspirationto all that’s worth anything in me.”

Tisdale’s hands sought his pockets; his headdropped forward a little and he stood regarding Fosterwith an upward look from under frowning brows.

“You don’t know her,” Foster repeated.“She’s different—finer thanother women. And she has been gently bred.Generations of the best blood is bottled like oldwine in her crystal body.” He paused, hisface brightening at the fancy. “You canalways see the spirit sparkling through.”

“I remember about that blue blood,” Tisdalesaid tersely. “Weatherbee told me how itcould be traced back through a Spanish mother to somebuccaneering adventurer, Don Silva de y somebody, whomade his headquarters in Mexico. And that meansa trace of Mexican in the race, or at least Aztec.”

Foster colored. “The son of that Don Silvacame north and settled in California. He broughthis peons with him and made a great rancheria.At the time of the Mexican War, his herds and flockscovered immense ranges. Hundreds of these cattlemust have supplied the United States commissary; therest were scattered, and in the end there was littleleft of the estate; just a few hundred acres and abattered hacienda. But Mrs. Weatherbee’sfather was English; the younger son of an old and knightedfamily.”

“I know,” answered Tisdale dryly.“Here in the northwest we call such sons remittancemen. They are paid generous allowances, sometimes,to come to America and stay.”

“That’s unfair,” Foster flamed.“You have no right to say it. He came toCalifornia when he was just a young fellow to investa small inheritance. He doubled it twice in afew years. Then he was persuaded to put his moneyin an old, low-grade gold mine. The company madeimprovements, built a flume thirty miles long to bringwater to the property for development, but it washardly finished when a State law was passed prohibitinghydraulic mining. It practically ruined him.He had nothing to depend on then but a small annuity.”

“Meantime,” supplemented Tisdale, “hehad married his Spanish senorita and her inheritance,the old rancheria, was sunk with his own in the goldmine. Then he began to play fast and loose withhis annuity at the San Francisco stock exchange.”

“He hoped to make good quickly. He wasgetting past his prime, with his daughter’sfuture to be secured. But it got to be a habitand, after the death of his wife, a passion.His figure was well known on the street; he was calleda plunger. Some days he made fortunes; the nextlost them. Still he was the same distinguished,courteous gentleman to the end.”

“And that came on the stock exchange, aftera prolonged strain. David Weatherbee found himand took him home.” Tisdale paused, thenwent on, still regarding Foster with that upward lookfrom under his forbidding brows. “It fellto Weatherbee to break the news to the daughter, andten days later, on the eve of his sailing north toSeattle, that marriage was hurried through.”

There was a silent moment, then Foster said:“Weatherbee loved her, and he was going to Alaska;it was uncertain when he could return; married, hemight send for her when conditions were fit. Andher father’s affairs were a complete wreck;even the annuity stopped at his death, and there wasn’tan acre of her mother’s inheritance left.Not a relative to take her in.”

“I know; that is why she married Weatherbee.”Tisdale set his lips grimly; he swung around and strodeacross the floor. “You see, you can’ttell me anything,” he said. “I knowall about it. Wait. Listen. I am goingover the mountains and look up that land of Weatherbee’s,and I shall probably buy it, but I want you to understandclearly it is only because I hope to carry his projectthrough. Now go north, Foster; take a new gripon things; get to work and let your investments alone.”

After that, when Foster had gone, Tisdale spent along interval tramping the floor of his breezy room.The furrows still divided his brows, his mouth wasset, and a dark color burned and glowed through histan. But deeper than his angry solicitude forFoster rankled his resentment against this woman.Who was she, he asked himself, that she should fixher hold on level-headed Foster? But he knewher kind. Feversham had called her a “typicalAmerican beauty,” but there were many types,and he knew her kind. She was a brunette, ofcourse, showing a swarthier trace of Mexican withthe Spanish, and she would have a sort of personalmagnetism. She might prove dramatic if roused,but those Spanish-California women were indolent,and they grew heavy early. Big, handsome, voluptuous;just a splendid animal without a spark of soul.

He had stopped near the table, and his glance fellon the package in the ring of light from the shadedlamp. After a moment he lifted it and, drawingup a chair, seated himself and removed the wrapper.It covered a tin box such as he was accustomed touse in the wilderness for the protection and portageof field notes and maps. He raised the lid andtook from the top a heavy paper, which he unfoldedand spread before him. It was Weatherbee’slandscape plan, traced with the skill of a draughtsmanand showing plainly the contour of the tract in easternWashington and his method of reclamation. Theland included a deep pocket set between spurs of theCascade Mountains. The ridges and peaks aboveit had an altitude of from one to six thousand feet.He found the spring, marked high in a depressed shoulder,and followed the line of flume drawn from it down toa natural dry basin at the top of the pocket.A dam was set in the lower rim of this reservoir and,reaching from it, a canal was sketched in, feedingcross ditches, distributing spillways to the orchardsthat covered the slopes and levels below. Finallyhe traced the roadway up through the avenues betweenthe trees, over the bench, to the house that commandedthe valley. The mission walls, the inside court,the roomy, vine-grown portico, all the detail of foliagehere had been elaborated skilfully, with the touchof an artist. The habitation stood out the centralfeature of the picture and, as a good etching will,assumed a certain personality.

How fond David would have been of a home,—ahome and children! Tisdale folded the plan andsat holding it absently in his hands. His mindran back from this final, elaborated copy to the firstrough draft Weatherbee had shown him one night atthe beginning of that interminable winter they hadpassed together in the Alaska solitudes. He hadwatched the drawing and the project grow. Butafterwards, when he had taken up geological work again,they had met only at long intervals; at times he hadlost all trace of Weatherbee, and he had not realizedthe scheme had such a hold. Still, he shouldhave understood; he should have had at least a suspicionbefore that letter reached him at Nome. And eventhen he had been blind. With that written proofin his hands, he had failed to grasp its meaning.The tragedy! the shame of it! That he shouldhave hesitated,—thrown away four days.

He looked off once more to the harbor, and his eyesgathered their far-sighted expression, as though theywent seeking that white trail through the solitudesstretching limitless under the cold Arctic night.His face hardened. When finally the features stirred,disturbed by forces far down, he had come to thatmake-believe orchard of spruce twigs.

After a while he folded the drawing to put it away,but as his glance fell on the contents of the box,he laid the plan on the table to take up the miner’spoke tucked in a corner made by a packet of letters,and drew out Weatherbee’s watch. It wasvaluable but the large monogram deeply engraved onthe gold case may have made it unnegotiable. Thatprobably was why David never had parted with it.Tisdale wound it, and set the hands. The actionseemed suddenly to bring Weatherbee close. Hefelt his splendid personality there beside him, ashe used to feel it still nights up under the nearYukon stars. It was as though he was back to onenight, the last on a long trail, when they were aboutto part company. He had been urging him to comeout with him to the States, but Weatherbee had as steadilyrefused. “Not yet,” he persisted.“Not until I have something to show.”And again: “No, Hollis, don’t askme to throw away all these years. I have theexperience now, and I’ve got to make good.”Then he spoke of his wife— for an instantTisdale seemed to see him once more, bending to holdhis open watch so that the light of the camp-fireplayed on her picture set in the lower rim. “Yousee Alaska is no place for a woman like her,”he said, “but she is worth waiting for and workingfor. You ought to understand, Hollis, how thethought of her buoys me through.”

But it was a long time to remember a picture seenonly by the flicker of a camp-fire and starshine,and the woman of Tisdale’s imagination cloudedout the face he tried to recall. “StillWeatherbee was so sensitive, so fine,” he arguedwith himself. “A woman must have possessedmore than a beautiful body to have become the centerof his life. She must, at the start, have possessedsome capacity of feeling.”

He put his thumb on the spring to open the lower case,but the image so clearly fixed in his mind stayedthe impulse. “What is the use?” heexclaimed, and thrusting the watch back into the bag,quickly tied the string. “I don’twant to see you. I don’t want to know you,”and he added, pushing the poke into its place andclosing the box; “The facts are all againstyou.”

CHAPTER IV

SNOQUALMIE PASS AND A BROKEN AXLE

Tisdale leaned forward in his seat in the observationcar. His rugged features worked a little, andhis eyes had their far-sighted gaze. Scarredbuttes crowded the track; great firs, clinging withexposed roots to the bluffs, leaned in menace, andabove the timber belt granite pyramids and fingersshone amethyst against the sky; then a giant door closedon this vestibule of the Pass, and he was in an amphitheatreof lofty peaks. The eastbound began to wind andlift like a leviathan seeking a way through.It crept along a tilting shelf, rounded a sheer spur,and ran shrieking over a succession of trestles, whilethe noise of the exhausts rang a continuous challengefrom shoulder and crag. Then suddenly a mightysummit built like a pulpit of the gods closed behind,and a company of still higher mountains encircledthe gorge. Everywhere above the wooded slopestowered castellated heights and spires.

Presently a near cliff came between him and the higherview and, with a lift and drop of his square shoulders,he settled back in his chair. He drew his handacross his eyes, the humorous lines deepened and, likeone admitting a weakness, he shook his head.It was always so; the sight of any mountains, a patchof snow on a far blue ridge, set his pulses singing;wakened the wanderlust for the big spaces in God’sout-of-doors. And this canyon of the Snoqualmiewas old, familiar ground. He had served his surveyor’sapprenticeship on these western slopes of the Cascades.He had triangulated most of these peaks, named someof them, and he had carried a transit to these headwaters,following his axman often over a new trail. Now,far, far down between the columns of hemlock and fir,he caught glimpses of the State road on the oppositebank of the stream that, like a lost river, went foreverseeking a way out, and finally, for an instant hesaw a cabin set like a toy house at the wooden bridgewhere the thoroughfare crossed. Then the eastbound,having made a great loop, found another hidden gatewayand moved up to the levels above Lake Keechelus.The whistle signalled a mountain station, and Tisdalerose and went out to the platform; when the trucksjolted to a standstill, he swung himself down to theground to enjoy a breath of the fine air.

The next moment he found himself almost upon a wreckedautomobile. He saw in a flash that the road,coming through a cut, crossed the railroad track,and that in making a quick turn to avoid the end ofthe slowing train, the chauffeur had forced the carinto the bank. The machine was still upright,but it listed forward on a broken axle. A youngwoman who had kept her seat in the tonneau was nursinga painful wrist, while two girls, who evidently hadcome through the accident unscathed, were trying tohelp the only man of the party up from the ground.Tisdale bent to give him the support of his shoulder,and, groaning, the stranger settled against the sideof his car and into a sitting position on the edgeof the floor, easing an injured leg. He had alsoreceived an ugly hurt above his brows, which wereheavy and black and met in an angle over a prominentnose.

The lady in the tonneau and one of the girls had thesame marked features and the same brilliant dark eyes,though the retreating chin, which in the man amountedto almost a blemish, in them was modified. Butthe last one in the party, whom Tisdale had noticedfirst, was not like the rest. She was not likeany one in the world he had seen before. Fromthe hem of her light gray motoring coat to the crownof her big hat, she was a delight to the eyes.The veil that tied the hat down framed a face fullof a piquant yet delicate charm. She was watchingthe man huddled against the machine, and her mouth,parted a little, showed the upper lip short with theupward curves of a bow. It was as though wordswere arrested, half spoken, and her eyes, shadowyunder curling dark lashes, held their expression,uncertain whether to sparkle out or to cloud.

After a moment the man lifted his head and, meetingher look, smiled. “I’m all right,”he said, “only I’ve wrenched this knee;sprained it, I guess. And my head feels likea drum.”

“Oh, I am—glad”—hervoice fluctuated softly, but the sparkle broke inher eyes—“that it isn’t worse.Would you like a glass of ice-water from the train?A porter is coming and the conductor, too. I willask for anything.”

He smiled again. “You’ll get it,if you do. But what I want most just now is aglass of that port. Elizabeth,” and hisglance moved to the other girl, “where did youput that hamper?”

Elizabeth, followed by the porter, hurried aroundto the other side of the automobile to find the basket,and Tisdale moved a few steps away, waiting to seeif he could be of further service.

A passenger with a camera and an alert, inquiringface had come down from the day coach. He woundthe film key and focussed for a closer exposure, butno one noticed him. At that moment all interestcentered on the man who was hurt. “Well,”said the conductor at last, having looked the groupand the situation over, “what’s the trouble?”

“Looks like a broken axle, doesn’t it?And possibly a broken leg.” He groanedand repeated aggressively: “A broken axle.With the worst of Snoqualmie Pass before us, and nota garage or a repair shop within fifty miles.”

“You are in a fix, sure. But this trainwill take you through the Pass to Ellensburg, andthere ought to be a hospital and a garage there.Or—the westbound passenger, due at thissiding in seven minutes”—the conductorlooked at his watch—“could put youback in Seattle at eight-fifteen.”

“Make it the westbound; no hospital for me.Telegraph for a drawing-room, conductor, and notifythis station agent to ship the machine on the sametrain. And, Elizabeth,” he paused to takethe drinking-cup she had filled, “you look upa telephone, or if there isn’t a long distance,telegraph James. Tell him to have a couple ofdoctors, Hillis and Norton, to meet the eight-fifteen;and to bring the limousine down with plenty of pillowsand comforters.” He drained the cup anddropped it into the open hamper. “Now,porter,” he added, “if you hurry up a co*cktail,the right sort, before that westbound gets here, itmeans a five to you.”

As these various messengers scurried away, the girlwho remained picked up the cup and poured a draughtof wine for the lady in the tonneau. “Iam so sorry, but it was the only way. Do youthink it is a sprain?” she asked.

“Yes.” The older woman took the cupin her left hand. She had a deep, carrying voice,and she added, looking at the injured wrist: “It’sswelling frightfully, but it saved my face; I mighthave had just such a hideous wound as Frederic’s.Isn’t it a relief to hear him talking so rationally?”

The girl nodded. “He seems quite himself,”she said gravely. But she turned to cover themirth in her eyes; it suffused her face, her wholecharming personality. Then suddenly, at the momentthe flow was highest, came the ebb. Her glancemet Tisdale’s clear, appraising look, and shestood silent and aloof.

He looked away and, after a moment, seeing nothingfurther to do, started back to his train. Sheturned to take the empty cup, and as she closed thehamper the whistle of the westbound sounded throughthe gorge.

Tisdale walked on through the observation car to therear platform and stood looking absently off throughan aisle of Alpine firs that, parklike, bordered thetrack. It was a long time since the sight of apretty woman had so quickened his blood. He hadbelieved that for him this sort of thing was over,and he laughed at himself a little.

The westbound rumbled to a stop on the parallel track,he felt the trucks under him start, and an unaccountabledepression came over him; the next moment he hearda soft voice directing the porter behind him, and asunaccountably his heart rose. The girl came onthrough the open door and stopped beside him, bracingherself with one hand on the railing, while she wavedher handkerchief to the group she had left. Hecaught a faint, clean perfume suggesting violets,the wind lifted the end of her veil across his shoulder,and something of her exhilaration was transmitted tothe currents in his veins. “Good-by, Elizabeth,”she called. “Good-by. Good-by.”

Some trainmen were getting the injured man aboardthe westbound passenger, and the lady who had leftthe wrecked automobile to go with him sent back asonorous “Au revoir.” But Elizabeth,who was hurrying down from the station where she hadaccomplished her errand, turned in astonishment tolook after the speeding eastbound. Then a rockyknob closed all this from sight.

The girl on the platform turned, and Tisdale moveda little to let her pass. At the same time thelurching of the car, as it swung to the curve, threwher against him. It all happened very quickly;he steadied her with his arm, and she drew back inconfusion; he raised his hand to his head and, rememberinghe had left his hat in his seat, a flush shaded throughhis tan. Then, “I beg your pardon,”she said and hurried by him through the door.

Tisdale stood smoothing his wind-ruffled hair andwatching the receding cliff. “Her eyesare hazel,” he thought, “with turquoiselights. I never heard of such a combination,but—it’s fine.”

A little later, when he went in to take his seat,he found her in the chair across the aisle. Thetrain was skirting the bluffs of Keechelus then, andshe had taken off her coat and hat and sat watchingthe unfolding lake. His side glance swept herslender, gray-clad figure to the toe of one trim shoe,braced lightly on her footstool, and returned to herface. In profile it was a new delight. Onecaught the upward curl of her black lashes; the suggestionof a fault in the tip of her high, yet delicatelychiseled nose; the piquant curve of her short upperlip; the full contour of the lifted chin. Herhair, roughened some, was soft and fine and blackwith bluish tones.

The temptation to watch her was very great, and Tisdalesquared his shoulders resolutely and swung his chairmore towards his own window, which did not afforda view of the lake. He wanted to see this newrailroad route through the Cascades. This Passof Snoqualmie had always been his choice of a transcontinentalline. And he was approaching new territory; henever had pushed down the eastern side from the divide.He had chosen this roundabout way purposely, withthirty miles of horseback at the end, when the GreatNorthern would have put him directly into the WenatcheeValley and within a few miles of that tract of Weatherbee’she was going to see.

There were few travelers in the observation car, andfor a while nothing broke the silence but the clampand rush of the wheels on the down-grade, then theman with a camera entered and came down the aisle asfar as the new passenger’s chair. “Ihope you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’mDaniels, representing the Seattle Press, andI thought you would like to see this story go in straight.”

Tisdale swung his chair a little towards the openrear door, so that he was able to watch without seemingto see the progress of the comedy. He was quickenough to catch the sweeping look she gave the intruder,aloof yet fearless, as though she saw him across aninvisible barrier. “You mean you are areporter,” she asked quietly, “and arewriting an account of the accident for your newspaper?”

“Yes.” Daniels dropped his cap intothe next chair and seated himself airily on the arm.The camera swung by a carrying strap from his shoulder,and he opened a notebook, which he supported on hisknee while he felt in his pocket for a pencil.“Of course I recognized young Morganstein; everybodyknows him and that chocolate car; he’s been runin so often for speeding about town. And I supposehe was touring through Snoqualmie Pass to the racesat North Yakima fair. There should be some horsesthere worth going to see.”

“We meant to spend a day or two at the fair,”she admitted, “but we expected to motor on,exploring a little in the neighborhood.”

“I see. Up the valley to have a look atthe big irrigation dam the Government is putting inand maybe on to see the great Tieton bore. Thatwould have been a fine trip; sorry you missed it.”Daniels paused to place several dots and hooks onhis page. “I recognized Miss Morganstein,too,” he went on, “though she was toobusy to notice me. I met her when I was takingmy course in journalism at the State University; dancedwith her at the Junior Prom. And the other lady,whose wrist was sprained, must have been her sister,Mrs. Feversham. I was detailed to interview thenew Alaska delegate when he passed through Seattle,and I understood his wife was to join him later.She was stopping over for a visit, and the societyeditor called my attention to a mighty good pictureof her in last Sunday’s issue. Do you know?—”he paused, looking into the girl’s face witha curious scrutiny, “there was another fine reproductionon that page that you might have posed for. Thelady served tea or punch or did something at the sameaffair. But I can’t remember her name—I’vetried ever since we left that station—thoughseems to me it was a married one.”

“I remember the picture you mean; I remember.And I was there. It was a bridge-luncheon atthe Country Club in honor of Mrs. Feversham. Andshe— the lady you were reminded of—wonthe prize. So you think I resemble that photograph?”She tipped her head back a little, holding his glancewith her half-veiled eyes. “What an imagination!”

“Of course if you did pose for that picture,it doesn’t do you half justice; I admit that.But”—regarding her with a waveringdoubt—“I guess I’ve been jumpingat conclusions again. They call me the ‘Novelist’at the office.” He paused, laughing offa momentary embarrassment. “That’swhy I didn’t want to depend on getting yourname from the society editor.”

“I am glad you did not. It would have beenvery annoying, I’m sure—to the lady.I suppose,” she went on slowly, while the glamourgrew in her eyes, “I suppose nothing could induceyou to keep this story out of the Press.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head decidedly.“I don’t see how I can. I’ddo ’most anything to oblige you, but this isthe biggest scoop I ever fell into. The fellowsdetailed by the other papers to report the fair wentstraight through by way of the Northern Pacific.I was the only reporter at the wreck.”

“I understand, but,” her voice fluctuatedsoftly, “I dislike publicity so intensely.Of course it’s different with Mrs. Feversham.She is accustomed to newspaper notice; her husbandand brother are so completely in the public eye.But since you must use the story, couldn’t yousuppress my name?”

“Oh, but how could I? The whole story hingeson you. You were driving the machine. Isaw you from the train window as you came through thecut. You handled the gear like an imported chauffeur,but it was steep there on the approach, and the carbegan to skid. I saw in a flash what was goingto happen; it made me limp as a rag. But therewas a chance,—the merest hairbreadth, andyou took it.” He waited a moment, then said,smiling: “That was a picture worth snapping,but I was too batty to think of it in time. Yousee,” he went on seriously, “the leadingcharacter in this story is you. And it meansa lot to me. I was going to be fired; honest Iwas. The old man told me he wasn’t lookingfor any Treasure Island genius; what his paperneeded was plain facts. Then his big heart gotthe upper hand, and he called me back. ‘Jimmie,’he said, ’there’s good stuff in you, andI am going to give you one more trial. Go overto North Yakima and tell us about the fair. Takethe new Milwaukee line as far as Ellensburg and pickup something about the automobile road through SnoqualmiePass. But remember, cut out the fiction; keepto facts!’”

“I understand,” she repeated gravely,“I understand. The accident came opportunely.It was life and color to your setting and demonstratesthe need of a better road. The most I can hopeis that you will not exaggerate or—or putus in a ridiculous light.”

“I swear to that.” He settled hisnotebook again on his knee and lifted his pencil.“Nothing sensational,” he added, “nothingannoying; now please give me your name.”

“Well, then, write Miss Armitage.”

“Miss Armitage. Thank you. Miss Armitageof?”

“San Francisco.”

“Of San Francisco; and visiting the Morgansteins,of course. But going on now alone to meet thefriends who are expecting you—am I right?—atNorth Yakima.”

There was a brief silence, and she moved a littlein her chair. “Where I am going now,”she said, and looked at him once more across the invisiblebarrier, “is another story.”

“I beg your pardon.” Daniels laughedand, rising from his perch on the chair arm, put hisnotebook in his pocket. “And I’m awfullygrateful. If ever I can be of service to you,I hope you’ll let me know.” He startedup the car, then paused to say over his shoulder:“The light for photography was fine; the oldman will double column every illustration.”

“Illustrations?” She started up in dismay.“Oh, no. Please—I couldn’tendure—”

But Jimmie Daniels, with the camera swinging to hisquick step, hurried on to the vestibule.

She settled back in her seat, and for a moment herconsternation grew; then the humor of the situationmust have dawned on her, for suddenly the sparklesdanced in her eyes. Her glance met Tisdale’sbriefly and, suppress it as he tried, his own smilebroke at the corners of his mouth. He rose andwalked out again to the platform.

This was the rarest woman on earth. She was ableto appreciate a joke at her own expense. Clearlyshe had finessed, then, in the instant she had beensure of the game, she had met and accepted defeat witha smile. But he would like to discipline thatfellow Daniels;—here he frowned—thosefilms should be destroyed. Still, the boy wouldhardly give them up peaceably and to take them otherwisewould not spare her the publicity she so desired toavoid; such a scene must simply furnish fresh material,a new chapter to the story. After all, not onenewspaper cut in a hundred could be recognized.It was certain she was in no need of a champion; henever had seen a woman so well equipped, so sure ofherself and her weapons, and yet so altogether feminine.If Foster had but known her.

Instantly, in sharp contrast to this delightful stranger,rose the woman of his imagination; the idle spendthriftwho had cast her spell over level-headed Foster; whohad wrecked David Weatherbee; and his face hardened.A personal interview, he told himself presently, wouldbe worse than useless. There was no way to reacha woman like her; she was past appeal. But hewould take that tract of desert off her hands at herprice, and perhaps, while the money lasted, she wouldlet Foster alone.

The train had left Lake Keechelus and was racing easilydown the banks of the Yakima. He was enteringthe country he had desired to see, and soon his interestwakened. He seated himself to watch the heightsthat seemed to move in quick succession like the endlesslyclosing gates of the Pass. The track still ranshelf-wise along precipitous knobs and ridges; sometimesit bored through. The forests of fir and hemlockwere replaced by thinning groves of pine; then appearedthe first bare, sage-mottled dune. The trucksrumbled over a bit of trestle, and for an instant hesaw the intake of an irrigating canal, and finally,after a last tunnel, the eastbound steamed out ofthe canyon into a broad, mountain-locked plateau.Everywhere, watered by the brimming ditch, stretchedfields of vivid alfalfa or ripe grain. Wherethe harvesting was over, herds of fine horses andcattle or great flocks of sheep were turned in to browseon the stubble. At rare intervals a sage-grownbreadth of unreclaimed land, like a ragged blemish,divided these farms. Then, when the arid slopesbegan to crowd again, the train whistled Ellensburgon the lower rim of the plain.

Tisdale left his seat to lean over the railing andlook ahead. He was in time to catch a fleetingglimpse of Jimmie Daniels as he hurried out of thetelegraph office and sprang on the step of a startingbus. It was here the young newspaper man wasto transfer to the Northern Pacific, and doubtlessthe girl too was changing trains. The Milwaukee,beyond Ellensburg, passed through new, unbroken countryfor many miles; the stations were all in embryo, andeven though she may not have resumed her journey atthe Pass with the intention of stopping off at thefair, the same bus was probably taking her over tothe old, main traveled route down the Yakima to theColumbia.

Again that unaccountable depression came over him.He tried to throw it off, laughing at himself a littleand lighting a cigar. This pretty woman had happenedin his path like a flower; she had pleased his eyesfor a few hours and was gone. But what possibledifference could her coming and going make to him?

The train started, and he settled back in his seat.The fertile fields were left behind, then presentlythe eastbound steamed through a gap in a sun-bakedridge and entered a great arid level. Sage-brushstretched limitless, and the dull green of each bush,powdered with dust, made a grayer blotch on the paleshifting soil, that every chance zephyr lifted inswirls and scattered like ashes. Sometimes a whiterpatch showed where alkali streaked through. Itwas like coming into an old, worn-out world.The sun burned pitilessly, and when finally the trainhad crossed this plain and began to wind through loftydunes, the heat pent between the slopes became stifling.The rear platform was growing intolerable, and heknew his station could not be far off. He roseto go in, but the eastbound suddenly plunged intothe coolness of a tunnel, and he waited while it boredthrough to daylight and moved on along a shelf overlookinga dry run. Then, as he turned to the open door,he saw the girl had not taken the Northern Pacificat Ellensburg. She was still there in the observationcar.

Her eyes were closed, and he noticed as he went forwardthat her breast rose and fell gently; the shorter,loose hair formed damp, cool little rings on her foreheadand about her ears. She was sleeping in her chair.But a turn in the track brought the sun streaming throughher window; the polished ceiling reflected the glare,and he stopped to reach carefully and draw the blind.A moment later the whistle shrieked, and the conductorcalled his station. He hurried on up the aisleand, finding his satchel in the vestibule, stood waitinguntil the car jolted to a stop, then swung himselfoff. But the porter followed with a suitcase andplaced his stool, and the next instant the girl appeared.She carried her hat in her hands, her coat was tuckedunder her arm, and as she stepped down beside Tisdale,the bell began to ring, the porter sprang aboard, andthe train went speeding ahead.

The station was only a telegraph office, flanked bya water-tank on a siding. There was no waitinghotel bus, no cab, no vehicle of any kind. Thesmall building rose like an islet out of a gray sea.Far off through billowing swells one other islet appeared,but these two passengers the eastbound had left werelike a man and woman marooned.

CHAPTER V

APPLES OF EDEN

Tisdale stood looking after the train while the girl’sswift, startled glance swept the billowing desertand with growing dismay searched the draw below thestation. “There isn’t a town in sight!”she exclaimed, and her lip trembled. “Nota taxi or even a stage!” And she added, movingand lifting her eyes to meet his: “Whatam I to do?”

“I’ll do my best, madam,” he paused,and the genial lines broke lightly in his face, “butI could find out quicker if I knew where you want togo.”

“To Wenatchee. And I tho—ought—Iunderstood—the conductor told me you weregoing there, and this was your stop. It was hisfirst trip over the new Milwaukee, and we trusted—toyou.”

Tisdale pursed his lips, shaking his head slowly.“I guess I am responsible. I did tell thatconductor I was going to Wenatchee when I asked himto drop me at this siding, but I should have explainedI expected to find a saddle-horse here and take acut-off to strike the Ellensburg road. It shouldsave an hour.” He drew a Government mapof the quadrangle of that section from his pocketand opened it. “You see, your stop wasEllensburg; the only through road starts there.”He found the thoroughfare and began to trace it withhis forefinger. “It crosses rugged country;follows the canyons through these spurs of the Cascades.They push down sheer to the Columbia. See thebig bend it makes, flowing south for miles along themountains trying to find a way out to the Pacific.The river ought to be off there.” He pausedand swung on his heel to look eastward. “Itisn’t far from this station. But even ifwe reached it, it would be up-stream, against a successionof rapids, from here to Wenatchee. A boat wouldbe impossible.” He folded the plat and putit away, then asked abruptly: “Do you ride,madam?”

She gave him a swift side-glance and looked off inthe direction of the hidden Columbia. “Sometimes—butI haven’t a riding habit.”

Tisdale waited. The humor deepened a little atthe corners of his mouth. There was but one passengertrain each way daily on the newly opened Milwaukeeroad, and plainly she could not remain at this sidingalone all night; yet she was debating the proprietyof riding through the mountains to Wenatchee withhim. Then unexpectedly the click of a telegraphcut the stillness, and a sudden brightness leapedin her face. “A station master,”she cried; “perhaps there’s a telephone.”And she hurried up the platform to the open officedoor.

Tisdale slowly followed.

The station master, having transmitted his message,swung around on his stool, and got to his feet inastonishment on seeing the girl.

“I have made a mistake,” she said, witha wavering glance over the interior, “and Itho—ought, I hoped there was a telephone.But you can communicate with the nearest garage forme, can you not? Or a stable—or—somewhere. You see,” and for an instantthe coquetry of a pretty woman who knows she is prettybeamed in her eyes, “I really must have a taxicabor some kind of a carriage to take me back to Ellensburg.”

The station master, who was a very young man, answeredher smile and, reaching to take a coat from a pegon the wall, hastily slipped it on. “Ofcourse I could call up Ellensburg,” he said;“that’s the nearest for a machine.But it belongs to the doctor, and even if he was intown and could spare it, it would take till dark tobring it down. It’s a mean road over sandhillsfor thirty-five miles.”

“It is hardly farther than that to Wenatchee,”said Tisdale quietly. “With good saddle-horseswe should be able to make it as soon. Do you knowanything about the trail through to tap the Ellensburg-Wenatcheehighway?”

The station master came around the end of his desk.“So you are going to Wenatchee,” he exclaimed,and his face shone with a sort of inner glow.“I guess then you must have heard about HesperidesVale; the air’s full of it, and while land isselling next to nothing you want to get in on theground floor. Yes, sir,” his voice quickened,“I own property over there, and I came thatway, up the mountain road, in the spring to take thisposition when the Milwaukee opened. But I don’tknow much about your cut-off; I just kept on to Ellensburgand dropped down by train from there. The mainroad, though, was in pretty good shape. It’sthe old stage road that used to connect with the NorthernPacific, and they had to do some mighty heavy haulingover it while the mountain division of the Great Northernwas building up the Wenatchee. It keeps an easygrade, following the canyons up and up till it’ssix thousand feet at the divide, then you begin todrop to the Columbia. And when you leave the woods,it’s like this again, bunch grass and sage,sand and alkali, for twenty miles. Of coursethere isn’t a regular stage now; you have tohire.”

“Any road-houses?” asked Tisdale briefly.

“No, but you come across a ranch once in awhile,and any of them would take a man in over night—ora lady.”

Tisdale turned to the door. “I can findsaddle-horses, I presume, at that ranch off therethrough the draw. Is it the nearest?”

“The nearest and the only one.” Thestation master walked on with him to the platform.“It’s a new place. They are workingtwo teams, every day and Sunday, while daylight lasts,grubbing out the sage-brush for planting. It’sa pumping layout to bring water from the Columbia,and they are starting with forty acres all in apples.”

“But they have saddle-horses?” said Tisdale,frowning.

“I can’t tell you that. The fellowI talked with came over for freight and used one ofthe teams. Said they couldn’t spare it.But that’s your only chance. I don’tknow of any other horses in twenty miles, unless it’sa wild band that passed this morning. They stoppeddown the draw, nosing out the bunch grass for an houror two, then skidooed.”

Tisdale paused a thoughtful moment then asked:“When is the next freight due on this siding?”

“Two-forty-five. And say”—heslapped his knee at the sudden thought—“that’s your chance, sure. I haveorders to hold them for the eastbound silk train,and they’ll let you ride in the caboose up toKittitas. That’s the stop this side ofEllensburg, and there’s a livery there, witha cross-road to strike the Ellensburg-Wenatchee.But, say! If you do drop off at Kittitas, askLighter to show you the colts. They are the starteam in three counties. Took the prize at NorthYakima last year for three-year-olds. They’retoo fly for livery work, but if you can drive, andLighter likes your looks”—the stationmaster gave Tisdale a careful scrutiny—“andyou have his price, I shouldn’t wonder if youcould hire Nip and Tuck.”

Tisdale laughed. “I see. If I can’thire them, I may be allowed the privilege to buy them.But,” and he looked at his watch, “there’stime to try that ranch.”

He started down the platform then stopped to lookback at the girl who had followed a few steps fromthe threshold. Her eyes held their expressionof uncertainty whether to sparkle or to cloud, andhe read the arrested question on her lips. “Ifthere are any saddle-horses,” he answered, “Iwill have them here before that two-forty-five freightarrives, but,” and he smiled, “I am notso sure I can supply the proper riding-suit. Andthe most I hope for in saddles is just a small Mexican.”

“A Mexican is easy riding,” she said,“on a mountain road.” But she stoodwatching him, with the uncertainty still clouding herface, while he moved down the draw.

He wore the suit of gray corduroy it was his habitto wear in open country, with leggings of russet leather,and he traveled very swiftly, with a long, easy stride,though never rapidly enough to wholly escape the dusthe disturbed. Once he stopped and bent to fastena loose strap, and then he took off his coat, whichhe folded to carry. The pall of dust envelopedhim. In it his actions gathered mystery, and hisbig frame loomed indistinctly like the figure of agenii in a column of smoke. The fancy must haveoccurred to the watcher on the platform, for it wasthen the sparkles broke in her eyes, and she saidaloud, softly clapping her hands: “I wish—Iwish it to be Nip and Tuck.”

“So do I.” She started and turned,and the station master smiled. “They’rebeauties, you can take my word. It would be thedrive of your life.”

He carried his office chair around the corner of thebuilding to place for her in the shade. Thenhis instrument called him, and for an interval shewas left alone. The desert stretched before her,limitless, in the glare of the afternoon sun.If the Columbia flowed in that neighborhood, it washidden by sand dunes and decomposing cliffs of granite.There was no glimpse of water anywhere, not a greenblade; even the bunch grass, that grew sparsely betweenthe sage-brush through the draw, was dry and gray.For a while no sound but the click of the telegraphdisturbed the great silence, then a hot wind camewailing out of the solitudes and passed into a fastnessof the mountains.

Finally the station master returned. “Well,”he said genially, “how are you making it?Lonesome, I guess.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “how can you,how could any human being, live in this dead, worn-outworld?”

“It is desolate now,” he admitted, sendinga thoughtful glance over the arid waste; “itmust seem like the Great Sahara to you, coming intoit for the first time and directly from the PugetSound country. I remember how I felt when I struckthe Hesperides. Why, it looked like the frontdoor of Hades to me; I said so, and I called myselfall kinds of a fool. But I had sunk an even thousanddollars in a twenty-acre tract; bought it off a realestate map over in Seattle, without seeing the ground.”He laughed, half in embarrassment at the confession,and moved to take a more comfortable position againstthe wall. “I was in a railroad office inChicago,” he explained, “and my fatherexpected me to work up to the responsible positionhe held with the company and take it when he was through.But the western fever caught me; I wanted to cometo Washington and grow with the country. He couldn’ttalk me out of it; so he gave me that thousand dollarsand told me to go and to stay till I made good.”

“Oh,” she cried, “how hard!How miserable! And you?”

“Why, I stayed. There wasn’t anythingelse to do. And after I looked around the valleya little and saw the Peshastin ditch and what it coulddo, I got busy. I found work; did anything thatturned up and saved like a miser, until I was ableto have the land cleared of sagebrush. It hasmean roots, you know, sprawling in all directionslike the branches. Then I saved to make connectionswith the ditch and to buy trees. I set the wholetwenty acres to apples—I always did likea good apple, and I had sized up the few home orchardsaround Wenatchee—then I put in alfalfa fora filler, and that eased things, and I settled downto office work, small pay, lots of time to plan, andwaited for my trees to grow. That was four yearsago, five since I struck the Wenatchee valley, andthis season they came into bearing. Now, at theend of this month, I am giving up my position withthe Milwaukee, cutting railroading for good, to goover and superintend the harvesting. And say”—hestood erect, the inner glow illumined his face—“I’vehad an offer for my crop; three hundred and fiftydollars an acre for the fruit on the trees. Threehundred and fifty dollars for a four-year-old orchard!Think of that! Seven thousand clear for re-investment.”

“How splendid!” she said, and in thatinstant her face seemed to catch and reflect his enthusiasm.“To have waited, fought like that in the faceof defeat, and to have made good.”

“And it’s only the beginning,” hisvoice caught a little; “an apple orchard hasbigger results every year after maturity. There’sa man over there on the Wenatchee who is going tomake a thousand dollar profit on each acre of histwelve-year orchard. You ought to see those trees,all braced up with scaffolding, only fourteen acresof them, but every branch loaded. But that orchardis an exception; they had to lift water from the riverwith buckets and a wheel, and most of the pioneersput in grain. Their eyes are just beginning toopen. But think of Hesperides Vale in anotherfive years. And think what that High Line ditchmeans. Just imagine it! Water, all you canuse and running to waste; water spilling over in thissage-brush desert. Doesn’t it spell oasis?Think of it! Grass and flowers and shade in placeof this sunbaked sand and alkali.”

“It sounds like a fairy tale,” she said.“I can hardly believe it.”

“I’ll show you.” He hurriedaround to the office door and came back directly witha basket of fruit. “Here are a few samplesfrom my trees. Did you ever see pink like thatin a bellflower? Isn’t it pretty enoughfor a girl’s cheek? And say,” he heldup an exceedingly large apple, nearer the size ofa small pumpkin, “how’s this for a RomeBeauty? An agent who is selling acreage for acompany down the Yakima offered me five dollars forthat apple yesterday. He wanted it for a windowdisplay over at his Seattle office. But lookat these Jonathans.” His sensitive fingerstouched the fruit lingeringly with a sort of caress,and the glow deepened in his face. “Theyrepresent the main crop. And talk about color!Did you ever see wine and scarlet and gold blend andshade nicer than this?”

She shook her head. “Unless it was in aPuget Sound cloud effect at sunset. That is whatit reminds me of; a handful of Puget Sound sunset.”

The station master laughed softly. “That’sabout it, sure. Now taste one and tell me whatthe flavor of a Wenatchee Jonathan is like. No,that’s not quite ripe; try this.”

She set her small white teeth in the crimson cheekand tested the flavor deliberately, with the gravityof an epicure, while the boy watched her, his wholenervous frame keyed by her responsiveness to high pitch.“It’s like nothing else in the world,”she said finally. “No, wait, yes, it is.It’s like condensed wine; a blend of the best;golden Angelica, red port, amber champagne, with justenough of old-fashioned cider to remind you it isan apple.”

The station master laughed again. “Say,but you’ve got it all in, fine.”He set the basket at her feet and stood looking downat her an uncertain moment. “I would likeawfully well to send you a box,” he added, andthe flush of his bellflower was reflected in his cheek.

She gave him a swift upward glance and turned herface to the desert. “Thank you, but whenone is traveling, it is hard to give a certain address.”In the pause that followed, she glanced again and smiled.“I would like one or two of these samples, though,if you can spare them,” she compromised; “Ishall be thirsty on that mountain road.”

“I can spare all you’ll take.”

“Thank you,” she repeated hastily.“And you may be sure I shall look for your orchardwhen I reach Wenatchee. The fruit on the treesmust be beautiful.”

“It is. It’s worth the drive up fromWenatchee just to see Hesperides Vale, and that specialEden of mine is the core. You couldn’t missit; about ten miles up and right on the river road.”

“I shall find it,” she nodded brightly.“I am going that way to see a wild tract ina certain pocket of the valley. I wonder”—shestarted and turned a little to give him her directlook—“if by any possibility it couldbe brought under your Peshastin ditch?”

He shook his head. “Hardly. I wouldn’tcount on it. Most of those pockets back in thebenches are too high. Some of them are cut offby ridges from one to six thousand feet. Maybeyour agent will talk of pumping water from the canal,but don’t you bite. It means an expensiveelectric plant and several miles of private flume.And perhaps he will show you how easy it’s goingto be to tap the new High Line that’s buildingdown the Wenatchee and on to the plateau across theColumbia thirty miles. But it’s a big propositionto finance; in places they’ll have to bore throughgranite cliffs; and if the day ever comes when it’sfinished far enough to benefit your tract, I doubtthe water would reach your upper levels. And say,what is the use of letting him talk you into buyinga roof garden when, for one or two hundred dollarsan acre, you can still get in on the ground floor?”

She did not answer. Her eyes were turned againto the desert, and a sudden weariness clouded herface. In that moment she seemed older, and thestrong light brought out two lines delicately tracedat the corners of her beautiful mouth that had notbeen apparent before.

“But, say,” the young man went on eagerly,“let me tell you a little more about the Vale.It’s sheltered in there. The mountains wallit in, and you don’t get the fierce winds offthe Columbia desert. The snow never drifts; itlies flat as a carpet all winter. And we don’thave late frosts; never have to stay up all nightwatching smudge pots to keep the trees warm. Andthose steep slopes catch the early spring sun and castit off like big reflectors; things start to grow beforewinter is gone. And I don’t know what makesit so, but the soil on those low Wenatchee benchesis a little different from any other. It lookslike the Almighty made his hot beds there, all smoothand level, and just forgot to turn the water on.And take a project like the Peshastin, run by a strongcompany with plenty of capital; the man along thecanal only has to pay his water rate, so much an irrigatedacre; nothing towards the plant, nothing for flumeconstruction and repairs. And, say, I don’twant to bore you, I don’t want to influenceyou too far, but I hate to see a woman—alady—throw her money away right in sightof a sure proposition; even if you can’t go intoimproved orchards, any Hesperides investment is safe.It means at least double the price to you within twoyears. I’ve bonded forty acres more ofwild land joining my tract, and I shall plant thirtyof it in the fall. The last ten will be clearedand reserved for speculation. The piece comeswithin a stone’s throw of the Great Northern’stracks. There’s a siding there now, andwhen the Vale comes into full bearing, they are boundto make it a shipping station. Then I’mgoing to plat that strip into town lots and put iton the market.” He paused while her glance,returning from the desert, met his in a veiled side-look,and the flush of the bellflower again tinged his cheek.“I mean,” he added, “I’d bemighty glad to let you in.”

The blue sparkles played under her lashes. “Thankyou, it sounds like riches, but—”

She stopped, leaving the excuse unsaid. The stationmaster had turned his face suddenly towards the Columbia;he was not listening to her. Then, presently,the sound that had caught his alert ear reached herown faintly. Somewhere out in the solitudes atrain had whistled. “The westbound freight!”she exclaimed softly. “Isn’t it thewestbound freight?”

He nodded. “She’s signalling Beverley.They’ll call me in a minute.” Andhe started around to the office door.

She rose and followed to the corner to look for Tisdale.Midway the road doubled a knoll and was lost, to reappear,a paler streak, on the gray slope where the ranchhouse stood; and it was there, at the turn, she firstnoticed a cloud of dust. It advanced rapidly,but for a while she was not able to determine whetherit enveloped a rider or a man on foot; she was certainthere was no led horse. Then a gust of wind partedthe cloud an instant, and the sparkle suffused herwhole face. He was returning as she had hoped,afoot.

She stood watching the moving cloud; the man’sbulk began to detach from it and gathered shape.Between pauses, the click of the telegraph reachedher, then suddenly the shriek of the whistle cut thestillness. The train must have crossed the Columbiaand was winding up through the dunes. She wentalong the platform and picked up her hat, which shehad left on the suitcase with her coat. Whileshe pinned it on and tied her veil over it, the freightsignalled twice. It was so close she caught theecho of the thundering trucks from some rocky cut.When the call sounded a third time, it brought ananswer from the silk special, far off in the directionof Ellensburg. She lifted her coat and turnedagain to watch Tisdale. He had quickened hispace, but a shade of suspense subdued the light inher face.

Since the whistle of the special, the telegraph instrumenthad remained silent, and presently she heard the stationmaster’s step behind her. “Well,”he said, “it’s Nip and Tuck, sure.But say, he can sprint some. Does it easy, too,like one of those cross-country fellows out of a collegeteam. I’d back him against the freight.”

“If he misses it,” and the suspense creptinto her voice, “I must go without him, andI suppose I can be sure of a hotel at Ellensburg?”

“You’ll find fair accommodations at Kittitas.But he isn’t going to miss the freight, andit will be hours saved to you if Lighter lets you havethe colts.”

She lifted her coat, and he held it while she slippedher arms in the sleeves. “I’ve ’mostforgotten how to do this,” he said; “it’sso long since I’ve seen a girl—ora lady. I’m afraid I’ve bored youa lot, but you don’t know how I’ve enjoyedit. It’s been an epoch seeing you in thiswilderness.”

“It’s been very interesting to me, I’msure,” she replied gravely. “I’velearned so much. I wonder if, should I come thisway again, I would find all this desert blossoming?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised; settlement’sbound to follow a new railroad. But say, lookinto Hesperides Vale while you are at Wenatchee, andif my proposition seems good to you at one hundreddollars an acre, and that is what I’m paying,drop me a line. My name is Bailey. HendersonBailey, Post-Office, Wenatchee, after the end of themonth.”

He waited with expectation in his frank brown eyes,but the girl stood obliviously watching Tisdale.He reached the platform and stopped, breathing deepand full, while he shook the dust from his hat.“I am sorry, madam,” he said, “buttheir only saddle-horse pulled his rope-stake thismorning and went off with the wild herd. You willhave to take this freight back to Kittitas.”

“How disappointing!” she exclaimed.“And you were forced to tramp back directlythrough this heat and dust.”

“This is the lightest soil I ever stepped on”—heglanced down over his powdered leggings and shoes;the humor broke gently in his face—“andthere’s just one kind deeper,—theAlaska tundra.”

With this he hurried by her to the office. Presentlythe freight whistled the siding, and Bailey pickedup the baggage and went down to make arrangementswith the trainmen. The girl followed, and whenTisdale came back, she stood framed in the doorwayof the waiting caboose, while a brakeman dusted achair, which he placed adroitly facing outside, sothat she might forget the unmade bunks and greasystove. “It isn’t much on accommodations,”he said conciliatingly, “but you can have itall to yourselves; as far as you go, it’s yourprivate car.”

The other train thundered into the station and past;the freight began to move, and Tisdale swung himselfaboard. Then the station master, rememberingthe apples at the last moment, ran with the basket,crowned still by the Rome Beauty for which he hadrefused five dollars, and dropped it as a partingtribute at her feet.

“Thank you! Thank you for everything!”Her soft voice fluted back to Bailey, and she leanedforward a little, raising her hand with a partingsalute. “Good-by!”

Then, as she settled back in her chair, her swiftside-glance swept Tisdale. It was incrediblehe had removed so much dust in that brief interval,but plainly, somewhere in that miserable station, hehad found water and towels; he had not seemed morefit that morning in the observation car. Thehand he laid on the wall as a brace against the rockingof the light caboose was on a level with her eyes,and they rested there. It was a strong, well-madehand, the hand of the capable draughtsman, sensitiveyet controlled, and scrupulously cared for. “Ihope I pass muster,” he said, and the amusem*ntplayed gently in his face, “for I am going toventure to introduce myself. Possibly you haveheard Judge Feversham speak of me. I am HollisTisdale—Miss Armitage.”

In the instant he hesitated on the name, she gavehim another swift upward glance, and he caught a questionin her eyes; then the sparkles rose, and she lookedoff again to the point where the railroad track waslost among the dunes. “Of course I haveheard of you,” she admitted. “We—Mrs.Feversham—recognized you this morning inSnoqualmie Pass and would have spoken to thank youfor your service had you not hurried aboard your train.She has known you by sight and has wished to meet youpersonally a long time. But I—I—asyou must know—I—”

She had turned once more to give him the direct lookof her unveiled eyes, and meeting his her voice failed.The color flamed and went in her face; then, her glancefalling to the basket at her feet, she bent and tookthe largest apple. “Did you ever see sucha marvel?” she asked. “It came fromthat station master’s orchard in the Wenatcheevalley. He called it a Rome Beauty. Divideit, please; let us see if the flavor is all it promises.”

“If it is”—and Tisdale tookthe apple and felt in his pocket for his knife—“theground that grew the tree is a bonanza.”He waited another moment, watching the changing colorin her face, then turned and walked to the upper endof the caboose, where he deliberately selected a stoolwhich he brought forward to the door. Her confusionpuzzled him. Had she been about to confess, ashe had at first conjectured, that Miss Armitage wasan incognito used to satisfy the Press reporterand so avoid publicity? It was clear she hadthought better of the impulse, and he told himself,as he took the seat beside her and opened his knife,he was to have no more of her confidence than JimmieDaniels.

CHAPTER VI

NIP AND TUCK

Bailey was right; the colts were beauties. Butat the time Tisdale arrived at the Kittitas stables,Lighter, having decided to drive them to North Yakima,was putting the pair to a smart buggy. They werenot for hire at double or treble the usual day rate.

“I want to sell this team,” the traderrepeated flatly. “I don’t want towinter ’em again, and my best chance to show’em is now, down at the fair. I can keep’em in good shape, making it in two stages andresting ’em over night on the road, and be thereby noon to-morrow.”

One of the horses reared, lifting the stable-boy offhis feet, and Lighter sprang to take the bit in hispowerful grasp. “Steady, Tuck, steady!Whoa, whoa, back now, back, steady, whoa!” Theanimal stood, frothing a little, his beautiful coatmoist, every muscle tense. “See there, now!Ain’t he peaceable? Nothing mean underhis whole hide; just wants to go. The other onewill nip your fingers once in a while, if you don’twatch out, but he don’t mean anything, either;it’s all in fun.”

He gave his place to the boy again and stepped backto Tisdale’s side, still watching his team,while a second stableman hurried to fasten the traces.“The fact is,” he went on, dropping hisvoice confidentially, “I’ve got wind ofa customer. He’s driving through from theSound to the races in his machine. A friend ofmine wired me. Mebbe you know him. It’sone of those Morgansteins of Seattle; the young feller.He saw these bays last year when they took the blueribbon and said he’d keep an eye on ’em.They were most too fly then for crowded streets andspinning around the boulevard ’mongst the automobiles,but they’re pretty well broke now. Steady,Nip, whoa there!”

“But,” said Tisdale quietly, “youngMorganstein met with an accident this morning in SnoqualmiePass. An axle was broken, and he was thrown outof his machine. His leg was injured, and he tookthe train back to Seattle. I happened to be onthe eastbound at the siding where it all occurred.”

Lighter gave him a skeptical glance between narrowedlids. “Then, if he can’t come himself,I guess he’ll send his man. He told thatfriend of mine he counted on having another look atthis team.”

Tisdale’s brows contracted. “Seehere, I want to drive to Wenatchee; what is the bestyou can do for me?”

“Why, let’s see. My best livery rigis on the Wenatchee road now. One of them HighLine fellers hired the outfit with a driver to takehim through to the valley. If you’d be’nhere when they started, likely they’d be’nglad to accommodate you. And the sorrels is outwith a picnic to Nanum canyon. That leaves theroans. They come in half an hour ago. A coupleof traveling salesmen had ’em out all the forenoon,and these drummers drive like blue blazes; and it’sa mean pull through to Wenatchee. But wait tillto-morrow and, with an early start, you can make itall right with the roans. That’s the bestI can do, unless you want a saddle-horse.”

Tisdale walked back to the stalls and, convinced ata glance the jaded roans were impossible for thatday, at least, stopped to look over the saddle animals.He saw that there were two promising travelers, butit would be necessary to impress an indifferent thirdto carry the baggage. Besides, judging from allhe had seen, the resources of Kittitas did not includea ready-made lady’s habit. He returned andstood another silent moment watching the lithe, impatientbays. Finally his eyes moved to the entranceand down the road to the railroad station where MissArmitage was waiting. She was seated on a benchnear the door. He could distinguish her grayfigure in relief against the reddish-brown wall.

Directly he swung around. “What is yourprice?” he asked.

Lighter’s hand dropped from the edge of thebuggy seat. He stepped back to the heads of histeam. “You get in, Harry,” he said.“Drive ’em five or six blocks. Keepyour eyes open.”

Harry gathered the reins warily and sprang in; Lighterreleased his hold, then hurried forward to the drivewayand stood with Tisdale watching the team. “Ain’tthey a sight?” he said.

And they were. Their coats shone like satin inthe sun; they stepped airily, spurning the dust ofKittitas, and blew the ashen powder from their nostrils;then without warning the splendid span was away.

Tisdale repeated: “What is your price?”

Lighter’s shrewd eyes swept his new customerover; it was as though he made an estimate of howmuch Tisdale could pay. “Five hundred dollars,”he said. “Five hundred—if it’sspot cash.”

“And the outfit?”

“Let me see. Harness is practically new;buggy first-class. I’ll make it an evenseven hundred for the whole business; outfit and team.”

There was a brief silence. As a rule, a man drawingthe salary of the Geological Survey does not spendseven hundred dollars lightly. He bridles hisimpulses to own fine driving-horses until at leasthe has tried them. And this sum, just at thattime, meant something of a drain on Tisdale’sbank account. He knew if he bought the Weatherbeetract and reclaimed it, he must hedge on his personalexpenses for a year or two; he had even talked withBanks a little about a loan to open the project andkeep it moving until the next season’s clean-up,when the Aurora should make good. He stirred,with a quick upward lift of his head, and looked oncemore in the direction of the station.

The girl rose and began to walk the platform.

Tisdale swung back and met the trader’s calculatinggaze. “Where is your bank?” he asked.

The business was quickly transacted and, when Lighterand his customer stepped out of the bank, Harry wasthere, driving the bays slowly up and down the street.In the moment they waited for him to draw up, the traderlooked Tisdale over again. “Your easiestway to get this team over to the Sound is to drivethrough Snoqualmie Pass, the way you came.”

“But,” said Tisdale, knitting his brows,“I told you I wanted this team to drive to theWenatchee valley.”

“You can’t drive on through the Cascadesfrom there and, if you try to ship these colts aboarda Great Northern train, you’ll have trouble.”

“I shall probably leave them to winter in thevalley. Unless”—Tisdale paused,smiling at the afterthought—“I decideto sell them to young Morganstein when I get backto Seattle.”

Lighter laughed dryly. “I thought so.I sized you up all right at the start. I saysto myself: ‘He don’t look like a fellerto run a bluff,’ and I says: ’YoungMorganstein ain’t the sort to pick up any second-handoutfit,’ but I thought all along you was hisman.”

“I see.” The humor played softlyin Tisdale’s face. “I see. Butyou thought wrong.”

Lighter’s lids narrowed again skeptically.“Those letters you showed to identify yourselfcinched it. Why, one was signed by his brother-in-law,Miles Feversham, and your draft was on the SeattleNational where the Morgansteins bank. But it’sall right; I got my price.” He nudged Tisdaleslyly and, laughing again, moved to the heads of theteam. “Now, sir, watch your chance; they’rechain lightning the minute you touch the seat.”

Tisdale was ready. At last he felt the tug ofthe lines in his grasp, the hot wind stung his face,and he was speeding back in the direction of the station.The girl came to the edge of the platform as he approached,and while the solitary man from the freight officecaught the first opportunity to store the baggageunder the seat, and the second to lift in the basketof samples from Bailey’s orchard, she tied herveil more snugly under her chin and stood measuringthe team with the sparkles breaking in her eyes.Then she gathered her skirts in one hand and laid theother lightly on the seat.

“Don’t try to help me,” she saidbreathlessly. “Just hold them.”And the next instant she was up beside him, and herlaugh fluted in exhilaration as they whirled away.

Kittitas fell far behind. They were racing directlyacross the seven miles of level towards a pass ina lofty range that marked the road to Wenatchee.Far to the left lines of poplars showed where the irrigatingcanals below Ellensburg watered the plain, and on theright the dunes and bluffs of the unseen Columbiabroke the horizon. But the girl was watchingTisdale’s management of the horses. “Whatbeauties!” she exclaimed. “And Nipand Tuck!” Her lips rippled merriment. “Howwell named. Wait, be— care—ful—theyare going to take that ho-le. Oh, would you mindgiving those reins to me?”

“I wish I could.” He shook his head,while the amusem*nt played gently at the corners ofhis mouth. “I know all about a team of huskies,and it doesn’t make much difference what I haveunder a saddle, but these kittens in harness are ratherout of my line.”

“Then trust yourself to me; please do.I used to drive just such a pair.”

“Oh, but your hands couldn’t stand this,and those gloves would be ribbons in half an hour.”

“They are heavier than they look; besides, thereare the shops at Wenatchee!” As if this settledthe matter she said: “But we must changeplaces. Now.” She slipped into hisseat as he rose, and took the reins dexterously, witha tightening grip, in her hands. “Whoa,whoa, Nip!” Her voice deepened a little.“Steady, Tuck, steady! That’s right;be a man.” There was another silent intervalwhile he watched her handling of the team, then, “Idid not know there could be a pair in all the worldso like Pedro and Don Jose,” she said, and theexhilaration softened in her face. “Theywere my ponies given me the birthday I was seventeen.A long time ago—” she sighed andflashed him a side-glance, shaking her head—“butI shall never forget. We lived in San Francisco,and my father and I tried them that morning in GoldenGate park. The roads were simply perfect, andthe sea beach at low tide was like a hardwood floor.After that we drove for the week-end to Monterey,then through the redwoods to Santa Cruz and everywhere.”She paused reminiscently. “Those Californiahotels are fine. They pride themselves on theirorchestras, and wherever we went, we found friendsto enjoy the dancing evenings after table d’hote.That was in the winter, but it was more delightfulin the spring. We drove far south then, throughMenlo Park and Palo Alto, where the great meadows werevivid with alfalfa, and fields on fields were yellowwith poppies or blue with lupine; on and on into thepeach and almond country. I can see those blossomingorchards now; the air was flooded with perfume.”

Her glance moved from the horses out over the sage-coveredlevels, and the contrast must have dropped like acurtain on her picture, for the light in her facedied. Tisdale’s look followed the road upfrom the plain and rested on the higher country; hiseyes gathered their far-seeing gaze. He had beensuddenly reminded of Weatherbee. It was in thoseCalifornia orchards he had spent his early life.He had known that scent of the blossoming almond;those fields of poppies and lupine had been his playgroundwhen he was a child. It was at the universityat Palo Alto that he had taken his engineering course;and it was at one of those gay hotels, on a holidayand through some fellow student, he had met the womanwho had spoiled his life.

The moment passed. One of the horses broke, andinstantly the driver was alert. And while shealternately admonished and upbraided, with a firmmanipulation of the reins, the humor began to playagain in Tisdale’s face. They were approachingthe point where the road met the highway from Ellensburg,and in the irrigated sections that began to dividethe unreclaimed land, harvesters were reaping andbinding; from a farther field came the noise of athreshing machine; presently, as the bays turned intothe thoroughfare, the way was blocked by a great flockof sheep.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “there mustbe thousands of them; how can the ones in the centerbreathe? Whoa, Nip, whoa now! Do you thinkyou are one of those lambs? And there’sno chance to go around; it is fenced with barbed wireon both sides; we simply must drive through, No, letme, please. Steady, now, Tuck, steady, whoa.”

They had passed the mounted herders, and the coltsbroke their way playfully, dancing, curveting withbowing necks, into the midst of the flock. Soonthe figures of the advance shepherds loomed throughthe dust. They were turning the sheep into aharvested field. They rolled in over the yellowstubble like a foaming sea. Far away, outlinedlike a sail against an island rick, the night tentof these nomads was already pitched.

Tisdale laughed softly. “Well, madam, thatwas skilful piloting. A bidarka couldn’thave been safer riding in a skiddery sea.”

“A bidarka?” she questioned, rufflingher brows.

Tisdale nodded. “One of those small skincanoes the Alaskan natives use. And it’stouchy as a duck; comes bobbing up here and there,but right-side up every time. And it’sfrail looking, frail as an eggshell, yet I would stakea bidarka against a lifeboat in a surf. Do youknow?”—he went on after a moment—“Iwould like to see you in one, racing out with thewhitecaps up there in Bering Sea; your face all wetwith spray, and your hair tucked away in the hoodof a gray fox parka. Nothing else would show;the rest of you would be stowed below in a wonderfullittle water-tight compartment.”

“It sounds delightful,” she said, andthe sparkles broke in her eyes.

After that there was a long silence. The baysfell into an even trot. The mountains loomednear, then before them, on the limits of the plain,a mighty herd of cattle closed the road. Thegirl rose a little in her place and looked over thatmoving sea of backs. “We must drive throughagain,” she said. “It’s goingto be stifling but there’s no possible way around.No,” she protested, when he would have takenthe reins, “I’m able. I learned once,years ago, on a great ranch in southern California.I’d rather.” She settled in her seatsmiling a little. “It’s in the blood.”

Tisdale reached and took the whip. They had passedthe drivers and were pushing into the herd. Sometimesa red-eyed brute turned with lowered horns and drippingmouth, then backed slowly out of the way of the team.Sometimes, in a thicker press, an animal wheeled closeto the tires and, stemming the current, sounded aprotest. But the young horses, less playful now,divided the great herd and came at last safely outof the smother. The road began to lift, as theyrounded the first rampart of the range, and Tisdale’sglance fell to her hands. “Those glovesare done for, as I expected,” he exclaimed.“I’ll wager your palms are blistered.Come, own they hurt.”

She nodded. “But it was worth it, thoughyou may drive now, if you wish. It’s mywrists; they have been so long out of practice.You don’t know how they a—che.”

“So,” he said, when he had taken the reins,“so you are as fond of horses as this.”

“Horses like these, yes. I haven’tfelt as happy and young since I gave up Pedro andDon Jose.”

Tisdale turned a little to look in her face.She had said “young” with the tone ofone whose youth is past, yet the most conservativejudge could not place her age a day over twenty-five.And she was so buoyant, so vibrant. His pulsesquickened. It was as though currents of her vitalitywere being continually transmitted through his veins.

As they ascended, the plain unfolded like a map below;harvest fields, pastures of feeding cattle or sheep,meadows of alfalfa, unreclaimed reaches of sage-brush,and, far off among her shade-trees, the roofs of Ellensburgreflecting the late sun. Above the opposite rangethat hemmed the valley southward some thunder-headscrowded fast towards a loftier snow-peak. Faraway across the divide, white, symmetrical, wroughtof alabaster, inlaid with opal, lifted a peerlessdome.

“Mount Rainier!” exclaimed Tisdale.

“I knew it.” Her voice vibrated softly.“Even at this distance I knew. It was likeseeing unexpectedly, in an unfamiliar country, thehead of a noble friend lifting above the crowd.”

Tisdale’s glance returned to her face.Surprise and understanding shone softly in his own.She turned, and met the look with a smile. Itwas then, for the first time, he discovered unsoundeddepths through the subdued lights of her eyes.“You must have known old Rainier intimately,”he said.

She shook her head. “Not nearer than PugetSound. But I have a marvelous view from my hotelwindows in Seattle, and often in long summer twilightsfrom the deck of Mr. Morganstein’s yacht, I’vewatched the changing Alpine glow on the mountain.I always draw my south curtains first, at Vivian Court,to see whether the dome is clear or promises a wetday. I’ve learned a mountain, surely asa person, has individuality; every cloud effect isto me a different mood, and sometimes, when I’vebeen most unhappy or hard-pressed, the sight of Rainierrising so serene, so pure, so high above the frettingclouds, has given me new courage. Can you understandthat, Mr. Tisdale? How a mountain can become aninfluence, an inspiration, in a life?”

“I think so, yes.” Tisdale paused,then added quietly: “But I would like tobe the first to show you old Rainier at close range.”

At this she moved a little; he felt the invisiblebarrier stiffen between them. “Mr. Morgansteinpromised to motor us through to the National ParkInn when the new Government road was finished, butwe’ve been waiting for the heavy summer travelto be over. It has been like the road to Meccasince the foot of the mountain has been accessible.”

There was a silence, during which Tisdale watchedthe pulling team. Her manner of reminding himof his position was unmistakable, but it was her frequentreference to young Morganstein that began to nettlehim. Why should she wish specially to motor toRainier with that black-browed, querulous nabob?Why had she so often sailed on his yacht? Andwhy should she ever have been unhappy and hard-pressed,as she had confessed? She who was so clearlycreated for happiness. But to Tisdale her camaraderiewith Nature was charming. It was so very rare.A few of the women he had known hitherto had beencapable of it, but they had lived rugged lives; thewilderness gave them little else. And of all themen whom he had made his friends through an eventfulcareer, there was only Foster who sometimes felt themagnitude of high places,—and there hadbeen David Weatherbee. At this thought of Weatherbeehis brows clouded, and that last letter, the one thathad reached him at Nome and which he still carriedin his breast pocket, seemed suddenly to gather avital quality. It was as though it cried out:“I can’t stand these everlasting ice peaks,Hollis; they crowd me so.”

Miss Armitage sat obliviously looking off once moreacross the valley. The thunder-heads, densernow and driving in legions along the opposite heights,stormed over the snow peak and assailed the far, shiningdome.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “see Rainiernow! That blackest cloud is lifting over thesummit. Rain is streaming from it like a veilof gauze; but the dome still shines through like atransfigured face!”

Tisdale’s glance rested a moment on the wonder.His face cleared. “If we were on the otherside of the Cascades,” he said, “that weather-capwould mean a storm before many hours; but here, inthis country of little rain, I presume it is onlya threat.”

The bays began to round a curve and presently Rainier,the lesser heights, all the valley of Kittitas, closedfrom sight. They had reached the timber belt;poplars threaded the parks of pine, and young growthsof fir, like the stiff groves of a toy village, gatheredhold on the sharp mountain slopes. Sometimesthe voice of a creek, hurrying down the canyon to jointhe Yakima, broke the stillness, or a desert wind foundits way in and went wailing up the water-course.And sometimes in a rocky place, the hoof-beats ofthe horses, the noise of the wheels, struck an echofrom spur to spur. Then Tisdale commenced towhistle cautiously, in fragments at first, with hisglance on the playing ears of the colts, until satisfiedthey rather liked it, he settled into a definite tune,but with the flutelike intonations of one who lovesand is accustomed to make his own melody.

He knew that this woman beside him, since they hadleft the civilization of the valley behind, half repentedher adventure. He felt the barrier strengthento a wall, over which, uncertain, a little afraid,she watched him. At last, having finished thetune, he turned and surprised the covert look fromunder her curling black lashes.

“I hope,” he said, and the amusem*nt brokesoftly in his face, “all this appraisal is showinga little to my credit.”

The color flamed pinkly in her face. She lookedaway. “I was wondering if you blamed me.I’ve been so unconservative—so—so—evendaring. Is it not true?”

“No, Miss Armitage, I understand how you hadto decide, in a moment, to take that eastbound trainin Snoqualmie Pass, and that you believed it wouldbe possible to motor or stage across to Wenatchee fromthe Milwaukee road.”

“Yes, but,” she persisted, “youthink, having learned my mistake, I should have stayedon the freight train as far as Ellensburg, where Icould have waited for the next passenger back to Seattle.”

“If you had, you would have disappointed me.That would have completely spoiled my estimate ofyou.”

“Your estimate of me?” she questioned.

“Yes.” He paused and his glance movedslowly, a little absently, up the unfolding gorge.“It’s a fancy of mine to compare a woman,on sight, with some kind of flower. It may bea lily or a rose or perhaps it’s a flauntingtulip. Once, up in the heart of the Alaska forest,it was just a sweet wood anemone.” He pausedagain, looking off through the trees, and a hint oftenderness touched his mouth. “For instance,”he went on, and his voice quickened, “thereis your friend, Mrs. Feversham. I never have mether, but I’ve seen her a good many times, andshe always reminds me of one of those rich, dark rosesflorists call Black Prince. And there’sher sister, who makes me think of a fine, creamy hyacinth;the sturdy sort, able to stand on its own stem withouta prop. And they are exotics, both of them; theirpersonality, wherever they are, has the effect of astrong perfume.”

He paused again, so long that this time his listenerventured to prompt him. “And I?”she asked.

“You?” He turned, and the color flushedthrough his tan. “Why, you are like nothingin the world but a certain Alaska violet I once stumbledon. It was out of season, on a bleak mountainside,where, at the close of a miserable day, I was forcedto make camp. A little thing stimulates a mansometimes, and the sight of that flower blooming therewhen violet time was gone, lifting its head next toa snow-field, nodding so pluckily, holding its ownagainst the bitter wind, buoyed me through a desperatehour.”

She turned her face to look down through the treetopsat the complaining stream. Presently she said:“That is better than an estimate; it is a tribute.I wish I might hope to live up to it, but sooner orlater,” and the vibration played softly in hervoice, “I am going to disappoint you.”

Tisdale laughed, shaking his head. “Myfirst impressions are the ones that count,”he said simply. “But do you want to turnback now?”

“N—o, unless you—do.”

Tisdale laughed again mellowly. “Then it’sall right. We are going to see this trip through.But I wish I could show you that Alaska mountainsidein midsummer. Imagine violets on violets, thousandsof them, springing everywhere in the vivid new grass.You can’t avoid crushing some, no matter howcarefully you pick your steps. There’s arocky seat half-way up on a level spur, where youmight rest, and I would fill your lap with those violets,big, long-stemmed ones, till the blue lights dancedin your eyes.”

They were doing that now, and her laugh fluted softlythrough the wood. For that moment the barrierbetween them lost substance; it became the sheeresttissue, a curtain of gauze. Then the aloofnessfor which he waited settled on her. She lookedaway, her glance again seeking the stream. “Ican’t imagine anything more delightful,”she said.

A rough and steep breadth of road opened before them,and for a while the bays held his attention, thenin a better stretch, he felt her swift side-glanceagain reading his face. “Do you know,”she said, “you are not at all the kind of manI was led to expect.”

“No?” He turned interestedly, with theamusem*nt shading the corners of his mouth. “Whatdid you hear?”

“Why, I heard that you were the hardest manin the world to know; the most elusive, shyest.”

Tisdale’s laugh rang, a low note from the depthsof his mellow heart. “And you believedthat?”

She nodded, and he caught the blue sparkles underher drooping lids. “You know how Mrs. Fevershamhas tried her best to know you; how she sent you invitationsrepeatedly to dinner or for an evening at Juneau, Valdez,Fairbanks, and you invariably made some excuse.”

“Oh, but that’s easily explained.Summers, when she timed her visits to Alaska, I wasbusy getting my party into the field. The workingseason up there is short.”

“But winters, at Seattle and in Washington even,it has been the same.”

“Winters, why, winters, I have my geologicalreports to get in shape for the printer; interminableproofs to go over; and there are so many necessarypeople to meet in connection with my work. Then,too, if the season has been spent in opening countryof special interest, I like to prepare a paper forthe geographical society; that keeps me in touch withold friends.”

“Old friends,” she repeated after a moment.“Do you know it was one of them, or rather oneof your closest friends, who encouraged my delusionin regard to you?”

“No, how was it?”

“Why, he said you were the hardest man in theworld to turn, a man of iron when once you made upyour mind, but that Mrs. Feversham was right; youwere shy. He had known you to go miles around,on occasion, to avoid a town, just to escape meetinga woman. And he told us—of course Ican repeat it since it is so ridiculously untrue—thatit was easier to bridle a trapped moose than to leadyou to a ballroom; but that once there, no doubt youwould gentle fine.”

She leaned back in her seat, laughing softly, thoughit was obviously a joke at her own expense as wellas Tisdale’s. “And I believed it,”she added. “I believed it—everyword.”

Tisdale laughed too, a deep undernote. “Thatsounds like Billy Foster. I wager it was Foster.Was it?” he asked.

She nodded affirmatively.

“Then Foster has met you.” Tisdale’svoice rang a little. “He knows you, afterall.”

“Yes, he could hardly help knowing me.His business interests are with my closest friends,the Morgansteins; they think a great deal of him.And he happens to play a remarkably good hand at bridge;we always depend on him to make up a table when heis in town.”

Tisdale’s eyes rested a thoughtful moment onthe road ahead. Strange Foster never had mentionedher. But that showed how blind, how completelyinfatuated with the Spanish woman the boy was.His face set austerely. Then suddenly he started;his grasp tightened on the reins so that the coltssprang to the sharp grade. “Do you happento know that enchantress, too?” he asked.

“Whom?” questioned Miss Armitage.

“I mean Mrs. Weatherbee. I believe shecounts the Morgansteins among her friends, and yousaid you were staying at Vivian Court, where her apartmentsare.”

“Oh, yes, I know—her. I”—thecolor flamed and went in her face; her glance fellonce more to the steep slope, searching out the narrowingstream through the trees. “I—’veknown Beatriz Weatherbee all my life. I—Ithink a great deal of her.”

“Madam, madam!” Tisdale protested, “don’ttell me that. You have known her, lived nearher, perhaps, in California, those years when you weregrowing up; shared the intimacies young girls enjoy.I understand all that, but don’t say you careanything for her now.”

Miss Armitage lifted her face. Her eyes did notsparkle then; they flamed. “Why shouldn’tI, Mr. Tisdale? And who are you to disparage BeatrizWeatherbee? You never have known her. Whatright have you to condemn her?”

“This right, Miss Armitage; she destroyed DavidWeatherbee. And I know what a life was lost,what a man was sacrificed.”

CHAPTER VII

A NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN ROAD

They drove on for a long interval in silence.The colts, sobered by the sharp pull to the divide,kept an even pace now that they had struck the down-grade,and Tisdale’s gaze, hard still, uncompromising,remained fixed absently on the winding road.Once, when the woman beside him ventured to look inhis face, she drew herself a little more erect andaloof. She must have seen the futility of hereffort to defend her friend, and the fire that hadflashed in her eyes had as quickly died. It wasas though she felt the iron out-cropping in this manand shrank from him baffled, almost afraid. Yetshe held her head high, and the delicate lines, etchedagain at the corners of her mouth, gave it a savingtouch of decision or fortitude.

But suddenly Hollis drew the horses in. MissArmitage caught a great breath. The way was blockedby a fallen pine tree, which, toppling from the bluffthey were skirting, had carried down a strip of theroad and started an incipient slide. “Wecan’t drive around,” he said at last, andthe humor broke the grim lines of his mouth. “We’vegot to go through.”

She looked hastily back along the curve, then aheaddown the steep mountainside. “We nevercould turn in this pla—ace, but it isn’tpossible to drive through. Fate is against us.”

“Why, I think Fate favored us. She builtthis barricade, but she left us an open door.I must unhitch, though, to get these kittens through.”

As he spoke he put the reins in her hands and, springingout, felt under the seat for the halters. Thegirl’s glance moved swiftly along the tiltingpine, searching for that door. The top of thetree, with its debris of branches, rested prone onthe slope below the road; but the trunk was supportedby a shoulder of the bluff on which it had stood.This left a low and narrow portal under the cleanbole between the first thick bough and the wall.“But the buggy!” she exclaimed.

“That’s the trouble.” Tisdalefound one halter as he spoke and reached for the other.“It is getting this trap over that will taketime. But I pledge myself to see you throughthese mountains before dark; and when we strike thelevels of the Columbia, these colts are going to maketheir record.”

“You mean we can’t hope to reach Wenatcheebefore dark?” Her voice shook a little.“And there isn’t a house in sight—anywhere.Mr. Tisdale, we haven’t even seen another traveleron this road.”

“Well, this is luck!” He was drawing acoil of new rope from under the seat. “Thisis luck! Lighter must have meant to picket hishorses. Did I tell you he was starting to drivethese bays through to the fair at North Yakima?And here is a hatchet—he expected to cutfire-wood—and this looks like his lunch-box.Yes,”—and he lifted the lid to glancein—“here are biscuits, sliced ham,all we need. Lighter must have intended to spenda night on the road. And here is that second hitching-strap.Now, we are all right: the outfit is complete.”

He took the precaution to tie one of the horses beforehe commenced to unfasten the traces, and he workedswiftly, dexterously, while the girl watched him,directing him sometimes from her seat in the buggy.Presently he lifted the remaining strap, but beforehe could snap the hook in the ring, the colt’sears flattened back, and he gripped Tisdale’shand. Instantly Miss Armitage snatched the whipand was on her feet. “Whoa, Nip,”she cried, and cut the vixen lightly between the ears.“Whoa, now, whoa!”

The young horse released his hold and broke forward,with Hollis dragging at the bit. He ducked withthe colt under the barrier and, keeping his feet withdifficulty, ran hugging the bluff. Rocks, slippingbeneath the bay’s incautious hoofs, rattleddown the steep slope. Finally mastered by thattugging weight, he settled to an unstable pace andso passed the break in the road.

Miss Armitage had left the buggy. She followedto the opening and stood watching Tisdale until, unableto find a safe hitching-place, he turned another bend.The remaining horse pulled at his halter and neighedshrilly for his mate. She went to him. Aftera moment she untied him and led him through the passage.He followed easily, crowding her sometimes, yet choosinghis steps with the caution of a superior animal ina hard situation. Midway over the break in theroad, where it was narrowest, he halted with a forefooton a perilous table of granite, feeling, testing itsstability. “That’s right, be careful,”she admonished, allowing the strap to slacken whileshe, herself, balanced her weight on the rocking slab.“But it is safe enough—you see.Now, now, Tuck, come on.”

But as she started on, Tisdale reappeared at the curveand, waving her hand to reassure him, she took anincautious step. The slab, relieved suddenlyof her weight, tilted back and at the same instantcaught on its lowered edge the weight of the followinghorse. He backed off, jerking the halter taut,but she kept her hold, springing again to the surfaceof the rock. Loose splinters of granite beganto clatter down the slope; then, in the moment shepaused to gather her equilibrium, she felt Tisdale’sarm reaching around to take the strap. “Creepby me,” he said quietly. “No, betweenme and the bluff, sidewise; there’s room.”She gained safe ground and stood waiting while hebrought the bay across. A last rain of rock struckan answering echo through the gorge.

“What made you?” he asked. “Youknew I would hurry back. What made you? handicapped,too, by those skirts and abominable heels.”

“I saw you were hurt—the vixen meantto hurt—and I knew I could manage Tuck.I—I thought you might need me.”

Her breath was coming hard and quick; her eyes werebig and shadowy and, looking into their depths, thelight began to play softly in his own. “Youthought right,” he said. “I am goingto.”

He turned to lead the horse around to the cleft wherehe had left his mate. Miss Armitage followed.She regarded his broad back, pursing her lips a littleand ruffling her brows. “It is only a bruise,”he said presently over his shoulder, “and itserved me right. Lighter warned me of that trick.”

Nevertheless the handkerchief with which he had wrappedthe bruise was showing a red stain, and past the breakin the road he changed the halter to his left hand.The hitching-place he had chosen was in a cleft formedby a divided spur of the mountain. It was roofedby the boughs of two pines, and the boles of the treesoffered secure hold. She seated herself on aboulder, set benchwise against the rocky wall, andwatched him critically while he tied the second horse.

“How pleasant,” she said intrepidly; “itis like coming unexpectedly into a room ready furnishedin brown and green.”

Tisdale turned. “I could make you comfortablein this pocket, if it came to that,” he said.“It’s sheltered and level as a floor, andI could make you a bed, springy and fragrant, of boughs;the camp-fire would close the door. And you needn’tgo hungry with Lighter’s lunch and your apples;or thirsty with my drinking-cup to fill down thereat the stream.”

Even before he finished speaking her brows archedin protest, and he felt the invisible barrier stiffenhard as a wall. “We really must hurry, Mr.Tisdale,” she said, rising. “Thoughit may be impossible to reach Wenatchee to-night,we must find some sort of house. And where thereis a house, there must be housekeeping and”—hervoice wavered—“a woman.”

“Of course,” he answered. “Andwe have at least two hours of daylight left.Don’t worry; I am going now to hurry that carriagearound.”

He had said “of course,” but while hewent back to the buggy, his mind reviewed the sordidshelters he had found in just such solitudes, wherea woman’s housekeeping was the exception.Men in communities employed camp cooks, but most prospectors,ranchers, and cattlemen depended on themselves.There had been times when he himself had been forcedto make bread. He had learned that first winterhe had spent in Alaska with Weatherbee. At thethought of that experimental mixture, he smiled grimly.Then, suddenly, he imagined this gently nurtured womanconfronted by a night in such a shack as they hadoccupied. He saw her waiting expectantly forthat impossible chaperon; and, grasping the situation,struggling pluckily to cover her amazement and dismay;he saw himself and Weatherbee nerving each other tooffer her that miserable fare. He hoped they wouldfind a housekeeper at the first house on that mountainroad, but that lunch of Lighter’s gave him asense of security, like a reserve fund, inadequate,yet something against imminent panic.

Miss Armitage did not return to her seat when he wasgone. She fell to pacing the level; to the upperspur and back; to the lower wall and return; then,finally, it was a few yards further to the bend, todiscover what progress Tisdale had made. Thebuggy was not yet in sight, but the new rope stretcheddiagonally from beyond the breach in the road to astanding tree on the bluff above her, and he was atwork with the hatchet, cutting away an upright boughon the fallen pine. Other broken limbs, gatheredfrom the debris, were piled along the slide to buildup the edge. When his branch dropped, he sprangdown and dragged it lengthwise to reinforce the rest.Presently he was on the log again, reaching now forthe buggy tongue, he set his knee as a brace on thestump of the limb, his muscular body bent, lifted,strained. Then the front wheels rolled up acrossthe bole; he slipped to the ground and grasped theouter one, steadying it down. After a moment,when he had taken in the slack of the line, the remainingtires slowly followed, and he began to ease the vehiclealong the patched roadway. The rain of rock wasrenewed; fragments of granite shifted under the bulkheadof boughs; the buggy heeled lower, lower; then, atthe final angle, began to right while the rope strungtaut. The narrowest point was passed, and Tisdalestopped a breathing space.

It was characteristic of the man to see the humorof the situation in that moment while he stood wipingthe perspiration from his face. Jove, how Fosterwould enjoy seeing him labor like this for a girl.He imagined the boy sitting up there at some coignof vantage on the bluff, admonishing, advising himdryly, while he laughed in his sleeve. It wasundeniably funny. Alone, with one of Lighter’ssaddle-horses under him, his baggage secured behindthe saddle, he might have been threading the dunesof the Columbia now. This incipient slide neednot have caused him ten minutes’ delay, andeight, nine o’clock at the latest, would havefound him putting up for the night at the hotel inWenatchee. But here he was hardly over the divide;it was almost sunset, but he was dragging a buggy byhand around a mountain top. He hoped Foster neverwould find out what he had paid for these bays—theteam of huskies that had carried him the long trekfrom Nome to the Aurora mine and on through Rainy Passhad cost less. Still, under the circ*mstances,would not Foster himself have done the same?She was no ordinary woman; she was more than pretty,more than attractive; there was no woman like herin all the world. To travel this little journeywith her, listen to her, watch her charms unfold, wasworth the price. And if it had fallen to Foster,if he were here now to feel the spell of her, thatSpanish woman would lose her hold. Then he rememberedthat Foster knew her; she had admitted that. Itwas inconceivable, but he had known her at the timehe confessed his infatuation for Weatherbee’swife. The amusem*nt went out of Tisdale’sface. He bent, frowning, to free the buggy ofthe rope.

It was then Miss Armitage, exhilarated at his success,hurried forward from the bend. “Oh,”she cried radiantly, “how resourceful, how strongyou are. It looked simply impossible; I couldn’tguess what you meant to do, and now we have only tohitch the team and drive on to Wenatchee. But,”she added gravely and shook her head, “it wasdefying Fate.”

He turned, regarding her from under still cloudy brows,though the genial lines began to deepen anew.“I told you Fate was on our side. She threwthose boughs there in easy reach. She might aswell have said: ’There’s some lumberI cut for you; now mend your road.’”

“Perhaps, well, perhaps,” the girl laughedsoftly. “But if Fate had said that to anyother man, at least to any man I know, he would nothave heard.”

But the Columbia was still far off when darkness closed,and with sunset the thunder-heads they had watchedacross the Kittitas Valley gathered behind them.It was as though armies encamped on the heights theyhad left, waiting for night to pass. Then searchlightsbegan to play on the lower country; there was skirmishingalong the skyline; blades flashed.

At last, between the lightning flashes, the blacknesswas so dense it was hardly possible for Tisdale tosee the road, and he could not trust the nervous teamto keep the track; it was necessary to stop, at leastto wait until the moon should rise. But whilehe was preparing to tell her so, the silence was brokenby the barking of a dog. Instantly it was swelledby a deeper baying, and the echo rang a continuousclamor through the gorge. Then a faint illuminationbrought out in silhouette a final bluff ahead; roundingit, they saw a low-roofed habitation, and in the opendoor a woman with a lamp.

One of the dogs stood bristling and growling besideher; the other, barking furiously, sprang from theporch so that for a moment Tisdale was busy with theplunging team. Then the woman spoke, and the setter,whimpering, snapping furtively, crept back to her feet.

“We have been delayed by an accident,”Tisdale explained briefly, “and I want you totake this lady in for the night. Make her comfortableas possible, and I will see it is worth your while.”

“This ain’t much of a road-house.”The woman held the lamp higher to scrutinize the lady’sface. “We only got one room, an’ thebest I can do is to double up with the kids an’give you my bed.”

“That will do very well,” answered Tisdalequickly. “I can take care of myself.Of course there’s a stable somewhere out herein the dark, and a bale or two of hay.”

“No, we got a shed up, but we’re shorton feed. We’re short on ’bout everything:flour, potatoes, bacon, beans. We’ve justtook up this here claim, an’ things ain’tgrowed. But my man’s gone down to Wenatcheeto fetch a load.” Then, seeing this factwas hardly one to solace her transient guests, shelaughed shortly and went into the cabin to set thelamp on a table and bring a lantern that hung on thefarther wall.

Tisdale turned to help Miss Armitage down. “Wemay be able to find better accommodations towardsthe Columbia, when the moon rises,” he said,“but I can’t be as sure of another—chaperon.”Then, looking into her face, he added in his minorkey: “I am sorry, but you will make thebest of things, I know. And the night will pass.Come.”

She slipped down beside him and stood holding herskirts out of the powdery soil, while her wide eyessearched that interior through the open door.Tisdale lifted the baggage from the buggy to the porch,then the woman returned with the lantern and, followedby the dogs, went to show him where he might stablethe horses. After a moment Miss Armitage venturedup the low steps to the threshold. It was a portablecabin such as she had noticed from the train windowat intervals where construction was incomplete alongthe new railroad. It was battered and weak, showingold earmarks of transportation, but it was furnishedwith a rusty cook-stove, some bench chairs, and twobeds, which stood in the farther corners and nearly

filled that half of the room. A few heavy dishes,the part of a loaf of bread, and several slices ofindifferently fried bacon were on the table, betweenthe lamp and a bucket containing a little water.Presently, still holding her skirts, she crossed thegrimy floor and stood inspecting with a mingled fascinationand dread those ancient beds. Both were destituteof linen, but one was supplied with a tumbled heapof coarse, brown blankets. In the other, beneatha frayed comforter, two small boys were sleeping.Their sun-baked faces were overhung with thatchesof streaked blond hair, and one restless arm, throwingoff the sodden cover, partly exposed the child’sday attire, an unclean denim blouse tucked into overalls.She turned in sudden panic and hurried back to theporch.

In a little while she noticed her suitcase, openedit, and found her cologne; with this she drencheda fresh handkerchief and began to bathe her face andhands. Then she drew one of the bench chairs throughthe doorway and, seating herself with her back tothe room, kept on dabbing her lips and her cheekswith the cool, delicately pungent perfume, and sogathered up the remnants of her scattered fortitude.Finally, when the lantern glimmered again, and shewas able to distinguish the two returning figures,she had laid aside her hat and coat, and she was readyto smile, if not radiantly at least encouragingly,at Tisdale as he came up the steps.

The woman went in to shake out and spread the blanketswith a pretence at making the bed, and he followedto the threshold, where he took a swift and closerinventory of the room. Its resources were evenmore meager than he had supposed. He swung aroundand looked up through the darkness towards that shelteredcleft they had left near the Pass. He did notsay anything, but the girl watching him answered histhought. “I wish it had been possible.It would have been delightful—the groundwas like a carpet, clean and soft and fragrant—underthose pines.”

“I wish we had even had the forethought to bringdown an armful of those boughs. But, after all,it might have been worse. At least you need notgo hungry, with that lunch of Lighter’s andyour apples, to say nothing of the sandwiches I askedthe steward to make before I left the train. Andto-morrow, when you are safe with your friends at Wenatchee,you are going to forget this miserable experiencelike an unpleasant dream.”

“I am not ungrateful,” she said quickly.“I enjoyed every moment of that drive.And besides the apples, I have tea. I always tucka little in my suitcase when we are touring with Mrs.Feversham, because she uses a different blend.”

She bent as she spoke, to find the tea, which sheproduced together with a small kettle and alcoholburner. Her evident desire to contribute hershare, the fine show of courage that accepted and madethe best of the inevitable, went straight to Tisdale’sheart. “Tea,” he repeated mellowly,“tea and all the outfit. Well, that wasmighty thoughtful of you. I won’t evenhave to make a fire. But wait a minute; I am goingto lift that table out here where it is cooler.”

With two seats, there was barely room for it on theporch. Then, while he filled the kettle and lightedthe burner, she spread the cloth, a fine damask towelsupplied also from her baggage. On the whole itwas a rather gay little supper and, considering thelimitations of the menu, it bridged a long interval.Tisdale, who had been accustomed to drink tea blackand bitter on a hard trail, but habitually refusedit socially, tasted his cup with deliberation.“Miss Armitage,” he exclaimed, “youcan’t delude me. Whatever this beveragemay be, I am sure it is no ordinary tea.”

She was pouring a second cup when his glance fellfrom her face to her hands. They were delicatelymade, artistic, with wilful little thumbs, yet theyimpressed him with a certain resourcefulness, a strengthin reserve. Suddenly the light from the lanternwhich he had hung on a nail in the wall above thetable, struck an exceedingly large ruby she wore onher left hand. It glowed blood-red, scintillated,flamed. He saw the stone was mounted with diamondsin a unique setting of some foreign workmanship, andhe told himself it was probably an heirloom; it wastoo massive, too ornate for a betrothal ring; stillhe moved uneasily and set the cup down untasted.His eyes returned to her face, questioning, doubting.He was like a musician surprised to detect in a beautifulsymphony the first false note.

After that the conversation lagged. It was notcool on the porch. A broadside of lightning sweepingthe cabin showed it stood in a narrow valley walledby precipitous, barren slopes and widening gulfwisetowards the Columbia desert. The pent air seemedsurcharged. It was as though that table was setin a space between running dynamos, and when a strongerflash came, Miss Armitage instinctively grasped herchair, holding herself from contact with an unseenand terrible force. Once, during an interlude,the silence was broken by a strange, faint cry.

“Did you hear?” she asked breathlessly.“What was it?”

Tisdale smiled into her troubled eyes. “Why,just a cougar; lonesome, I guess, and calling hismate. But it’s all right. Sounds carryin these mountain gorges, and his cry was picked upby some cross wind miles from here. Look at thosedogs! They wouldn’t stay curled up thereon the ground asleep, too indifferent to prick upan ear, if a cougar, or even a coyote, were near.”

Still she was not wholly reassured. She leanedforward, listening, trying to fathom the darknesswith a lurking terror in her eyes. At last, whenTisdale rose to say good night, she, too, left herchair. She laid her hand on the edge of the tableas though that might steady her voice. “Areyou going to the stable?” she asked. “Didyou find a possible bed?”

Hollis laughed. “You needn’t troubleabout me. I am the sort of fellow to find thesoft side of a plank. Yes, it’s true.There have been times when I’ve slept luxuriouslyon a board, with just my coat rolled up for a pillow.”

There was a brief pause while her imagination graspedthe thought; then: “You must have beenvery tired,” she said.

“I was,” he answered dryly and reachedto take the lantern from the wall. At the footof the steps he halted and put the light down to pickup his bag, which he opened. “Here’sa bunch of my handkerchiefs,” he said. “Theyare bigger than yours. They should make you atleast a pillow-case. Good night.”

The setter rose to follow inquiringly at his heels;the lantern swung gently to his tread and, as hisshape disappeared in the gloom, his whistle, sweet,soft, almost tender, fluted back to her. It wasthe “Good night” from the opera of Martha.And Miss Armitage smiled in the face of Fear and turnedresolutely to go in.

But the next moment she was back again over the threshold.“Mr. Tisdale!” she called, and the currentsheld so long in check surged in her voice. “Mr.Tisdale!”

Instantly the lantern swung an arc. He came quicklyback to the steps. “Well,” he said,breaking the pause, “what is the trouble?”

“I know I must seem foolish—but—pleasedon’t go—yet.” Her positionon the edge of the porch brought her face almost ona level with his. Her eyes in the semi-darknesswere luminously big; her face, her whole body quivered.She leaned a little towards him, and her nearness,the low, vibrant intensity of her voice, set his pulsessinging.

“I really can’t stay in that room,”she explained. “Those beds all but touch,and she, the mother, has crowded in, dressed as sheis, to sleep with the children. There isn’tany air to breathe. I—I really can’tmake myself lie down—there. I hadrather spend the night here on the piazza. Only—pleasewait—until—”

Tisdale laughed his short, mellow note. “Youmean you are afraid of the dark, or is it the cougar?”

“It’s both and the lightning, too.There! See how it plays along those awful heights;javelins of it; whole broadsides. I know it isfoolish, but I can’t help feeling it is followingme. It singles me out, threatens me as thoughI am—guilty.”

“Guilty? You? Of what?” Tisdaleput down the lantern and came up the steps. “Seehere, Miss Armitage, come take your chair.”He moved it around from the table and laid his handon her arm, impelling her into the seat. “Nowface it out. Those flashes of heat lightning areabout as dangerous as the Aurora Borealis. Youought to know that.”

Then, because the personal contact had set his bloodracing, he moved away to the edge of the porch andstood frowning off up the gorge. He knew shecovered her face with her hands; he believed she wascrying, and he desired beyond all reason to take herto his heart and quiet her. He only said:“But I understand. I have seen strong menjust as foolish before an electrical storm, and thebravest woman I ever knew lost her grip one stillmorning just from solitude.”

There was another silence, then suddenly she liftedher head. “I am sorry,” she said,“but it is all over. I shall try my bestnot to annoy you any more.”

“Annoy me? Why, you haven’t.What makes you think that?” Tisdale turned,and the mellowness stole into his voice. “Ididn’t expect you to creep in and go to sleeptranquilly alongside that bunch of sage.”

At this she smiled. “You have found a flowerto fit even her.”

“I never made a misfit—yet,”he answered and waited, looking into her face, readingher through.

“But you have doubts,” she supplemented,“and I warned you I should disappoint you.I warned you at the start.”

Tisdale laughed again, softly. “The oddswere all against that Alaska violet,” he said,“but she weathered it through.” Andseating himself on the steps, he looked up again tothe night-enshrouded Pass. The air was cooler;a light wind, drawing down from the divide, broughta hint of dampness; it was raining somewhere, faroff. “My doubts are all right,” headded, “and I am going to stay here as long asyou want me to.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE BRAVEST WOMAN HE EVER KNEW

Presently, during one of the interludes when darknessenveloped the gulf, she began to entertain Tisdalewith an experience in the Sierras, a little adventureon one of those journeys with her father, when shehad driven Pedro and Don Jose. But though shetold the story with composure, even with a certainvivacity and charm, as she might have narrated it toa small and intimate audience in any safe drawing-room,her self-control was a transparency through whichhe saw her anxiety manoeuvering, in spite of his promise,to keep him there.

“Strange, is it not?” she went on, “howthings will take the gloss of humor, looking back.That cloudburst was anything but funny at the time;it was miserably exasperating to stand there drenched,with the comfortable quarters of the mining companyin sight, cut off by an impassable washout. Andit was wretched driving all those miles to our hotelin wet clothes, with not so much as a dry rug to coverus; yet afterwards, whenever I tried to tell aboutit, I failed to gain a shred of sympathy. Peoplelaughed, as you are doing now.”

“And you laughed with them,” answeredTisdale quickly, “because looking back you caughtthe right perspective. It is always so. Anotherincident that seemed trivial in passing will loomup behind us like a cliff on the horizon. Andit is so with people. The man who held the foregroundthrough sheer egoism sinks to his proper place inobscurity, while a little, white-faced woman we knewfor a day stands out of the past like a monument.”

His brows clouded; he turned from the lantern lightto look off again to the shrouded mountain tops.“And looking back,” he added, “theman you thought you knew better than the rest, thepartner, friend, to whom, when you were reminded andit suited your convenience, you were ready to do aservice, stands out from the shadows clearly defined.It is under the test of those high lights behind thathis character shines. You wonder at his greatness.His personality takes a stronger, closer hold, andyou would give the rest of your life just to go backand travel the old, hard road again with him.”

There was a long silence, broken once more by thatfar, wailing cry on the wind. Miss Armitage started.She laid her hand on Tisdale’s shoulder, thenearest object, in a tightening grip, while for a breathlessmoment she leaned forward, trying to penetrate thedarkness of the gorge. The action seemed to remindhim of her presence, and he turned to look at her.“Frightened again?” he asked.

Her hand fell; she settled back in her seat.“N-o, not very much, but it took me off guard.It sounds so desolate, so—so—supernatural;like the cry of a doomed soul.”

Tisdale smiled. “That describes it, butyou never have heard it at close range.”

She shivered; her glance moved again in apprehensionto the night-enshrouded Pass. “Have you,Mr. Tisdale?”

“Yes, lonesome nights by a mountain camp-fire,with just the wind piping down a ravine, or a cataractbreaking over a spur to fill the interlude.”

“Oh, that must have been terrifying,”and the shiver crept into her voice. “Butwhat did you do?”

“Why, I hurried to pull the embers togetherand throw on more spruce boughs. A cougar iscautious around a fire.”

There was another silence, then, “I was thinkingof your little, white-faced woman,” said MissArmitage. “She baffles me. Was sheyour bravest woman or just your anemone? Wouldyou mind telling me?”

“So you were thinking of her. That’sodd; so was I.” Tisdale changed his position,turning to lean on the edge of the porch with his elbowresting on the floor. “But it was thatGordon setter there that reminded me of her.Her dog had the same points, though he had been bettertrained.” He paused briefly, then said:“She was both. She was like that small,white flower which grows in the shelter of the Alaskawoods—sweet and modest and frail looking—yetshe was the bravest woman and the strongest when itcame to endurance I ever knew.”

“It happened, of course, in Alaska,” MissArmitage ventured, breaking the pause. “Youknew her there?”

“Yes, it was in Alaska and about five yearsago. The season I gave up getting rich in a hurryand went back to geological work. I had spentthe winter on the Tanana with David Weatherbee.We had staked a promising placer, and we were readyto begin sluicing with the first spring thaw, whenhe sold his interest unexpectedly to meet an obligationdown in the States. That nettled me, and I soldout my own share to the same men and accepted a positionwith the department, who had written to ask me to takecharge of a party working above Seward. Weatherbeestarted with me, but I left him to prospect alongthe headwaters of the Susitna. My surveys keptme in the neighborhood of Turnagain Arm until midsummer,when I moved camp up the river to the mouth of anunexplored tributary. It was the kind of streamto lure a prospector or a sportsman, clear, rapid,broken by riffles and sand-bars, while the grassy

shores looked favorable for elk or caribou. Tobridge the delay while the last pack-horses straggledin and the men were busy pitching tents and puttingthings into shape, I decided to go on a short huntingtrip. I traveled light, with only a single blanketrolled compactly for my shoulder strap, in case theshort night should overtake me, with a generous lunchthat Sandy, the cook, had supplied, but at the endof two hours’ steady tramping I had sightednothing. I had reached a wooded ravine and a snow-peak,apparently the source of the stream, closed the topof the gorge. It was the heart of the wilderness,over a hundred miles from a settlement and off thetrack of road-houses, but a few rods on I came uponthe flume and dump of a placer mine. The miner’scabin stood a little farther up the bank under a clumpof spruce, but the place seemed abandoned. ThenI noticed some berry bushes near the sluice had beenlately snapped off, where some heavy animal had pushedthrough, and a moment later, in the moist soil at asmall spillway, I picked up the trail of a large bear.

“The tracks led me up the rough path towardsthe cabin, but midway I came to a fallen tree.It must have been down a week or more, but no attempthad been made to clear the trail or to cut through,so, pushing up over the matted boughs, I leaped fromthe bole to avoid the litter beyond. At the sameinstant I saw under me, wedged in the broken branches,the body of my bear. He was a huge grizzly, andmust have made an easy and ugly target as he lumberedacross the barricade. I found one bullet had takenhim nearly between the eyes, while another had lodgedin the shoulder. And it was plain the shots wereaimed from the window, with the rifle probably restingon the sill.

“As I went on up the path, the loud baying ofa dog came from the cabin, then a woman’s face,young and small and very white, appeared at the window.Seeing me, she turned quickly and threw open the door.The next instant her hand fell to the neck of a fineGordon setter and, tugging at his collar, she drewback and stood surveying me from head to foot.’It’s all right, madam,’ I said,stopping before her. ’Don’t try tohold him. The bear won’t trouble you anymore. You made a mighty fine shot.’

“‘Oh,’ she said, and let the doggo, ‘I am so glad you have come.’And she sank into a chair, shaking and sobbing.”

“You mean,” exclaimed Miss Armitage breathlessly,“it was she who killed the bear?”

Tisdale nodded gently. “I wish I couldmake you understand the situation. She was nota sportswoman. She was city bred and had beencarefully reared—accustomed to have thingsdone for her. I saw this at a glance. Onlyher extremity and the fear that the dog would be hurtnerved her to shoot.”

“Oh, I see, I see,” said Miss Armitage.“Fate had brought her, left her in that solitaryplace—alone.”

“Fate?” Tisdale questioned. “Well,perhaps, but not maliciously; not in jest. Onsecond thought I would not lay it to Fate at all.You see, she had come voluntarily, willingly, thoughblindly enough. She was one of the few womenwho are capable of a great love.”

Tisdale waited, but the woman beside him had no moreto say. “I saw I must give her time togather her self-control,” he went on, “soI turned my attention to the setter, who was alternatelyspringing on me and excitedly wagging his tail.I like a good dog, and I soon had him familiarly snuffingmy pockets; then he stretched himself playfully, withan inquiring, almost human yawn; but suddenly rememberingthe bear, he stood pointing, head up, forepaw lifted,and made a rush, baying furiously.

“‘It’s all right, madam,’I repeated and stepped into the room. ’Youmade a fine shot, and that bearskin is going to makea great rug for your floor.’

“She lifted her face, downing a last sob, andgave me a brave little smile. ‘It isn’taltogether the bear,’ she explained. ’It’spartly because I haven’t seen any one for solong, and partly because, for a moment, I thoughtyou were my husband. I’ve been worried abouthim. He has been gone over three weeks, and henever stayed longer than five days before. Butit was a relief to have you come.’

“It sounds differently when I repeat it.You lose the sweet shyness of her face, the appealin her eyes not yet dry, and that soft minor chordin her voice that reminds me now of a wood-thrush.

“‘I understand,’ I hurried to say,’the solitude has grown intolerable. Iknow what that means, I have lived so long in the eternalstillness sometimes that the first patter of a rainon the leaves came like the tramp of an army, andthe snapping of a twig rang sharp as a pistol shot.’

“‘You do understand,’ she said.’You have been through it. And, of course,you see my husband had to leave me. The trailup the canyon is the merest thread. It wouldhave been impossible for me, and I should have onlyhindered him, now, when every day counts.’

“‘You mean,’ I said, ’he hasleft his placer to prospect for the main lode above?’And she answered yes. That every gravel bar madea better showing; the last trip had taken him abovethe tree line, and this time he expected to prospectalong the glacier at the source of the stream.Sometimes erosions laid veins open, and any hour ‘hemight stumble on riches.’ She smiled again,though her lip trembled, then said it was his limitedoutfit that troubled her most. He had taken onlya light blanket and a small allowance of bacon andbread.

“‘But,’ I reassured her, ’thereis almost a certainty he has found game at this seasonof the year.’

CHAPTER IX

THE DUNES OF THE COLUMBIA

Behind them, as Tisdale drove down, the heights theyhad crossed were still shrouded in thunder-caps, butbefore them the end of the Wenatchee range liftedclear-cut, in a mighty promontory, from the face ofthe desert. Already the morning sun gave a promiseof heat, and as the bays rounded a knoll, Miss Armitageraised her hands to shade her eyes.

“What color!” she exclaimed. “Howbarbarous! How ages old! But don’tsay this is the Columbia, Mr. Tisdale. I knowit is the Nile. Those are the ruins of Thebes.In a moment we shall see the rest of the pyramids andthe Sphinx.”

Tisdale brought the horses around a sand-pit in theroad which began to parallel the river, rolling wideand swift and intensely blue, where the rapids ceased,then he glanced at the other shore, where fantasticcolumns and broken walls of granite rose like a ruinedcity through a red glory.

“It is worth coming from New York to see, butyou have traveled abroad. Do you know, that disappointsme. A true American should see America first.”

“Then I confess.” The girl laughedsoftly. “I haven’t been nearer theNile than a lantern-slide lecture and the moving-pictureshow. But my father knew Egypt when he was aboy; maybe I’ve inherited some memories, too.”

Her enthusiasm was irresistible. Looking intoher glowing face, the mirth-provoking lines brokeand re-formed at the corners of his own mouth andeyes.

“But,” he explained after a moment, “thisdesert of the Columbia is not old; it’s tremendouslynew; so new that Nature hasn’t had time to takethe scaffolding away. You know—doyou not—this was all once a great inlandsea? Countless glacial streams brought wash downfrom the mountains, filling the shallows with thefinest alluvial earth. Then, in some big upheaval,one or perhaps several of these volcanic peaks poureddown a strata of lava and ash. As the ice tonguesreceded, the streams gradually dried; only the largerones, fed far back in the range, are left to-day.”

“How interesting!” Her glance swept upwardand backward along the heights and returned to thelevels. “And naturally, as the bed of thesea was laid bare, these last streams found the lowestdepression, the channel of the Columbia.”

Her quickness, her evident desire to grasp the greatscheme of things, which other women received withpoorly veiled indifference, often hurried to evade,warmed his scientist soul. “Yes,”he answered, “Nature remembered, while she wasbusy, to construct the main flume. She might aswell have said, when it was finished: ’Hereare some garden tracts I reclaimed for you. Nowget to work; show what you can do.’”

“And are you going to?” Her voice caughta little; she watched his face covertly yet expectantly,her breath arrested, with parted lips.

“Perhaps. I am on my way to find a certaingarden spot that belonged to David Weatherbee.He knew more about reclamation than I, for he grewup among your California orchards, but I have theplans he drew; I ought to be able to see his projectthrough.”

“You mean you may buy the land, Mr. Tisdale,if—things—are as you expect?”

“Yes, provided I have Mrs. Weatherbee’sprice.”

“What do you consider the tract is worth?”

“I couldn’t make a fair estimate beforeI have been over the ground. Seattle promotersare listing Wenatchee fruit lands now, but the Weatherbeetract is off the main valley. Still, the railroadpasses within a few miles, and the property must havemade some advance since he bought the quarter section.That was over nine years ago. He was a studentat Stanford then and spent a summer vacation up herein the Cascades with a party of engineers who wererunning surveys for the Great Northern. One dayhe was riding along a high ridge at the top of oneof those arid gulfs, when he came to a bubbling spring.It was so cool and pleasant up there above the desertheat that he set up a little camp of his own in theshade of some pine trees that rimmed the pool, andthe rest of the season he rode to and from his work.Then he began to see the possibilities of that alluvialpocket under irrigation, and before he went back tocollege he secured the quarter section. Thatwas his final year, and he expected to return thenext summer and open the project. But his wholefuture was changed by that unfortunate marriage.His wife was not the kind of woman to follow him intothe desert and share inevitable discomfort and hardshipuntil his scheme should mature. He began to plana little Eden for her at the core, and to secure morecapital he went to Alaska. He hoped to make arich strike and come back in a year or two with plentyof money to hurry the project through. You knowhow near he came to it once, and why he failed.And that was not the only time. But every yearhe stayed in the north, his scheme took a strongerhold on him. He used to spend long Arctic nightselaborating, making over his plans. He thoughtand brooded on them so much that finally, when theend came, up there in the Chugach snows, he set upan orchard of spruce twigs—”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Miss Armitage.“Please don’t tell it over again.I—can’t—bear it.”And she sank against the back of the seat, shuddering,and covered her eyes with her hands.

Tisdale looked at her, puzzled. “Again?”he repeated. “But I see you must have heardthe story through Mr. Feversham. I told it atthe clubhouse the night he was in Seattle.”

“It’s impossible to explain; you nevercould understand.” She sat erect, but Tisdalefelt her body tremble, and she went on swiftly, withlittle breaks and catches: “You don’tknow the hold your story has on me. I’vedreamed it all over at night; I’ve wakened coldand wet with perspiration from head to foot, as thoughI—too—were struggling throughthose frozen solitudes. I’ve been afraidto sleep sometimes, the dread of facing—it—is so strong.”

Watching her, a sudden tenderness rose through thewonder in Tisdale’s face.

“So you dreamed you were fighting it throughwith me; that’s strange. But I see thestory was too hard for you; Feversham shouldn’thave told it.” He paused and his browsclouded. “I wish I could make Weatherbee’swife dream it,” he broke out. “Itmight teach her what he endured. I have goneover the ground with her in imagination, mile aftermile, that long trek from Nome. I have seen herdone for, whimpering in a corner, like the weakesthusky in the team, there at the Aurora mine, and ather limit again up in Rainy Pass. And once lately,the night of the club supper, while I was lying awakein my room, looking off through the window to theharbor lights and the stars, I heard her crying deeplyfrom the heart. She did not seem like herselfthen, but a different woman I was mighty sorry for.”

Miss Armitage turned and met his look, questioning,hardly comprehending. “That sounds occult,”she said.

“Does it? Well, perhaps it is. Buta man who has lived in the big spaces has his sensessharpened. He sees farther; feels more.”

There was a silent moment. The colts, toppinga low dune, felt the pressure of the fills on thedown-grade, and the nigh horse broke, turning thefront wheel into a tangle of sage. “Mr.Tisdale,” she cried a little tremulously, “doyou think this is a catboat, tacking into a squall?Please, please let me drive.”

Her effort was supreme. It relieved the tension,and when the change was made, she drew to the edgeof the seat, holding her head high like that intrepidflower to which he had compared her.

“You mean,” she said evenly, “theterrible silence of your big spaces keys up the subjectivemind. That, of course, was the trouble with Mrs.Barbour’s husband. He allowed it to dominatehim. But a man like you”—andshe gave him her swift, direct look, and the shadowof a smile touched her mouth—“well-balanced,strong, would have kept the danger down. I shouldnever be afraid—for you. But,”she hurried on, “I can understand too how inthe great solitudes some men are drawn together.You have shown me. I did not know before I heardyour story how much a man can endure for a friend—andsacrifice.”

Tisdale looked off over the desert. “Friendshipup there does mean something,” he answered quietly.“Mere companionship in the Alaska wildernessis a test. I don’t know whether it’sthe darkness of those interminable winters, or themonotony that plays on a man’s nerves, but Ihave seen the closest partners get beyond speakingto each other. It’s a life to bring outthe good and the bad in a man; a life to make men hate;and it can forge two men together. But David Weatherbeenever had an enemy. He never failed a man.In a crisis he was great. If things had beenreversed”—he set his lips, his facehardened—“if Weatherbee had been inmy place, there at Nome, with a letter of mine in hishands, he wouldn’t have thrown away those fourdays.”

“Yes, he would. Consider. He musthave taken time to prepare for that terrible journey.How else could he have carried it through?” Sheleaned forward a little, compelling his glance, tryingto reason down the tragedy in his face.

“How can you blame yourself?” she finishedbrokenly. “You must not. I will not—letyou.”

“Thank you for saying that.” Tisdale’srugged features worked. He laid his hand foran instant over hers. “If any one in theworld can set me right with myself, it is you.”

After that they both were silent. They beganto round the bold promontory at the end of the Wenatcheerange; the Badger loomed on the rim of the desert,then Old Baldy seemed to swing his sheer front likean opened portal to let the blue flood of the Columbiathrough. The interest crept back to her face.Between them and those guardian peaks a steel bridge,fine as a spider web, was etched on the river, thena first orchard broke the areas of sage, the rowsof young trees radiating from a small, new dwelling,like a geometrical pattern. Finally she said:“I would like to know a little more about Mrs.Barbour. Did you ever see her again, Mr. Tisdale?Or the child?”

“Oh, yes. I made it a point the next winter,when I was in Washington, to run down into Virginiaand look them up. And I have always kept in touchwith them. She sends me new pictures of the boyevery year. He keeps her busy. He was arugged little chap at the start, did his best to grow,and bright!”—Tisdale paused, shakinghis head, while the humorous lines deepened—“Buthe had to be vigorous to carry the name she gave him.Did I tell you it was Weatherbee Tisdale? Thinkof shouldering the names of two full-sized men onthat atom. But she picked a nice diminutive outof it— ‘Bee.’

“It was a great christening party,” hewent on reminiscently. “She arranged itwhen she passed through Seattle and had several hoursto wait for her train. The ceremony was at Trinity,that stone church on the first hill, and the Bishopof Alaska, who was waiting too, officiated. Iwas in town at the time, getting my outfit togetherfor another season in the north, but Weatherbee hadto assume his responsibilities by proxy.”

“Do you mean David Weatherbee was the child’sgodfather?”

“One of them, yes.” Tisdale paused,and his brows clouded. “I wish the boyhad been his own. That would have been his salvation.If David Weatherbee had had a son, he would be herewith us now, to-day.”

Miss Armitage was silent. She looked off up theunfolding watercourse, and the great weariness Tisdalehad noticed that hour before dawn settled again onher face.

He laid his hand on the reins. “You aretired out,” he said. “Come, givethe lines to me. You’ve deceived me withall that fine show of spirits, but I’ve beenselfish, or I must have seen. The truth is, I’vebeen humoring this hand.”

“You mean,” she said quickly, “thisvixen did hurt you yesterday more than you would admit?”

“Oh, no, but the friction of the reins can makeeven a scratch uncomfortable after a while, and myglove is getting tight. A little peroxide, whenwe reach a pharmacy, will fix it all right.”

But Miss Armitage watched him doubtfully. Sheassured him she was not tired and that she loved todrive. Had she not told him so at the start?Then, as they left the promontory, her glance followedthe road ahead. The bridge was no longer fineas a spider web; it was a railroad crossing of steel,and the long eaves of the Great Northern depot liftednear, flanked by the business blocks of a town.“Wenatchee!” she exclaimed; and wavering,asked: “Isn’t this Wenatchee?”

“Yes, Miss Armitage, I am afraid that it is.You are back to civilization. A few minutes moreand, if you will give me their address, you will besafe with your friends.”

“I did not say I had any friends in Wenatchee,Mr. Tisdale. I am going on to Hesperides Vale.But please leave me at any quiet hotel. I can’tthank you enough for all your kindness and patience,”she went on hurriedly. “For making thistrip possible. All I can hope to do is share theexpense.” And she found the inside pocketof her coat and drew out a small silver purse.

Tisdale, driving slowly, divided his attention betweenhis team and the buildings on either side. “Thereis a public garage,” he said, “and a rivalestablishment opposite. You will have no troubleto finish your trip by automobile, as you planned.It will be pleasant making the run up the valley thisevening, when it is cool.”

Miss Armitage opened her purse. “The ratesmust be considerably higher on a rough mountain roadthan on the Seattle boulevard, and, of course, onecouldn’t expect to hire Nip and Tuck at ordinaryrates.”

Tisdale drew in, hesitating, before a hotel, thenrelaxed the reins. “The building seemsmodern, but we may find a quiet little inn up someside street with more shade.”

“I presume you will drive on up the valley,”she said, after a moment, “and start back toKittitas to-morrow. Or will it be necessary torest the team a day?”

“I shall drive on to that tract of Weatherbee’sthis afternoon; but I expect to take the westboundtrain to-night, somewhere up the valley.”

“I see,” she said quickly and tried tocover her dismay, “you intend to ship the teamback to Kittitas by way of Seattle. I’mafraid”—her voice broke a little,the color flushed pinkly to her forehead, her ears,and her glance fell to the purse in her lap—“butplease tell me the charges.”

“Madam,” and the ready humor crinkledthe corners of his mouth, “when I ship thesehorses back to Lighter, he is going to pay the freight.”

She drew a quick breath of relief, but her purse remainedopen, and she waited, regarding Tisdale with an expectant,disconcerting side-glance of her half-veiled eyes.“And the day rates for the use of the team?”she asked.

For a moment he was busy turning the horses.They had reached a second hotel, but it proved lessinviting than the first, and the side streets theyhad crossed afforded no quiet inn, or indeed any dwellingin the shade. “After all,” he said,“a room and bath on the north side, with windowslooking up the Columbia, should make you fairly comfortablethrough the heat of the day.” But the girlwaited, and when his eyes fell to that open purse,his own color burned through the tan. There wasno help for it; she must know the truth. He squaredhis shoulders, turning a little toward her. “Thereare no expenses to share, Miss Armitage. I—happened to own this team, and since we were travelingthe same way, I was glad to offer you this vacantseat.”

“Do you mean you bought these horses—outright—atKittitas?”

“Yes, the opportunity was too good to miss.”He tried to brave the astonishment in her eyes, buthis glance moved directly to the colts. “And,you see, if I should buy that tract of Weatherbee’s,I am going to need a team.”

“Doubtless,” answered Miss Armitage slowly.“Still, for breaking wild land or even cultivating,one would choose a steadier, heavier team. Butthey are beauties, Mr. Tisdale, and I know a man inSeattle who is going to be disappointed. I congratulateyou on being able to secure them.” She closedthe purse at last and reluctantly put it away, andshe added, with the merriment dimpling her lips:“Fate certainly was with me yesterday.”

They had reached the hotel, and as he drew up to thecurb, a man came from the lobby to hold the bays.Several traveling salesmen stood smoking and talkingoutside the entrance, while a little apart a land promoterand his possible capitalist consulted a blue print;but there was a general pause as Tisdale sprang out,and the curious scrutiny of wayfarers in a small townwas focussed on the arrivals.

“It looks all right,” he said quietly,helping her down, “but if you find anythingwrong, or should happen to want me, I shall be at thatother hotel until two o’clock. Good-by!”

He saw the surprise in her face change to swift appreciation.Then “Good-by,” she answered and walkedtowards the door. But there she stopped.Tisdale, looking back as he gave her suitcase to aboy, saw her lips part, though she did not speak.Then her eyelids drooped, the color played softlyin her face, and she turned to go in. There hadbeen no invitation in her attitude, yet he had felta certain appeal. It flashed over him she didnot want to motor up the valley; she wished to driveon with him. Too proud, too fine to say so, shewas letting her opportunity go. He hurried acrossthe pavement.

“Miss Armitage,” he said, and instantlyshe turned; the sparkles leaped in her eyes; she cametowards him a few steps and stopped expectantly.“If I start up the valley at two”—andhe looked at his watch—“that willbe a rest of nearly three hours. It means theheat of the day, but if it seems better than motoringover a country road with a public chauffeur, I wouldbe glad to have you drive for me.”

CHAPTER X

A WOMAN’S HEART-STRINGS

“Now I know the meaning of Wenatchee. It’ssomething racy, Mr. Tisdale, and a little wicked,yet with unexpected depths, and just the coolest,limpid hazel-green.”

Tisdale’s pulses quickened; his blood respondedto her exhilaration. “Yes, only”—andhe waited to catch the glance she lifted from the stream—“yourgreen is blue, and you forgot to count the sparklesin.”

As he spoke, the bays paced off the bridge. Theysprang, gathering themselves lightly for a sharp ascentand for an interval held the driver’s closeattention. The town and the Columbia were behind,and the road, which followed the contour of the slopesrising abruptly from the Wenatchee, began a seriesof sudden turns; it cut shelf-wise high across theface of a ridge; spurs constantly closed after them;there seemed no way back or through, then, like anopening gate, a bluff detached from the wall ahead,and they entered another breadth of valley. Inthe wide levels that bordered the river, young orchardsbegan to supplant the sage. Looking down fromthe thoroughfare, the even rows and squares seemedwrought on the tawny background like the designs ofa great carpet. Sometimes, paralleling the road,the new High Line canal followed an upper cut; ittrestled a ravine or, stopped by a rocky cliff, boredthrough. Where a finished spillway irrigateda mountainside, all the steep incline between therunnels showed lines on lines of diminutive trees,pluckily taking root-hold.

A little after that, near an old mission, they droppedto a lower bench and passed an apple orchard in fullbearing. Everywhere boughs laden with a goldor crimson harvest were supported by a network of scaffolding.It was marvelous that fruit could so crowd and clingto a slender stem and yet round and color to suchperfection. Miss Armitage slowed the horses downand looked up the shady avenues. Presently a drivewaydivided the tract, leading to a dwelling so smallit had the appearance of a toy house; but on the gatepostabove the rural delivery box the name of the ownershone ostentatiously. It was “HendersonBailey, Hesperides Vale.”

“Do you see?” she asked. “Thisis that station master’s orchard, where theRome Beauty grew.”

But the team was troublesome again. The roadmade a turn, rounding the orchard, and began the descentto a bridge. On the right a great water-wheel,supplied with huge, scoop-shaped buckets, was liftingwater from the river to distribute it over a reclaimedsection. The bays pranced toward it suspiciously.“Now, now, Tuck,” she admonished, “bea soldier.” The colt sidled gingerly.“Whoa, Nip, whoa!” and, rearing lightly,they took the approach with a rush.

As they quieted and trotted evenly off the bridge,a large and brilliant signboard set in an area ofsage-brush challenged the eye. Miss Armitagefluted a laugh.

“Buy one of these Choice Lots,”

she read, with charming, slightly mocking exaggeration.

“Buy to-day.

“To-morrow will see this Property the Heartof a City.

“Buy before the Prices Soar.

“Talk with Henderson Bailey.

“This surely is Hesperides Vale,” sheadded.

The amusem*nt went out of Tisdale’s face.“Yes, madam, and your journey’s end.Probably the next post-box will announce the name ofyour friends.”

She did not answer directly. She looked beyondthe heads of the team to the top of the valley, wheretwo brown slopes parted like drawn curtains and openeda blue vista of canyon closed by a lofty snow-peak.The sun had more than fulfilled its morning promiseof heat, but a soft breeze began to pull from thatwhite summit down the watercourse.

“I did not tell you I had friends in HesperidesVale,” she said at last. Her eyes continuedto search the far blue canyon, but her color heightenedat his quick glance of surprise, and she went on witha kind of breathlessness.

“I—I have a confession to make.I—But hasn’t it occurred to you, Mr.Tisdale, that I might be interested in this land youare on your way to see?”

His glance changed. It settled into his clear,calculating look of appraisal. Under it her colorflamed; she, turned her face farther away. “No,”he answered slowly, “No, that had not occurredto me.”

“I should have told you at the beginning, butI thought, at first, you knew. Afterward—butI am going to explain now,” and she turned resolutely,smiling a little to brave that look. “Mr.Morganstein had promised, when he planned the tripto Portland, that he would run over from Ellensburgto look the property up. He believed it mightbe feasible to plat it into five-acre tracts to puton the market. Of course we knew nothing of thedifficulties of the road; we had heard it was an oldstage route, and we expected to motor through andreturn the same day. So, when the accident happenedto the car in Snoqualmie Pass, and the others weretaking the Milwaukee train home, I decided, on theimpulse of the moment, to finish this side trip toWenatchee and return to Seattle by the Great Northern.I admit seeing you on the eastbound influenced me.We—Mrs. Feversham—guessed youwere on your way to see this land, and when the porterwas uncertain of the stage from Ellensburg, but thatyou were leaving the trail below Kittitas, I thoughtyou had found a newer, quicker way. So—Ifollowed you.”

Tisdale’s brows relaxed. He laughed a littlesoftly, trying to ease her evident distress.“I am glad you did, Miss Armitage. I ammighty glad you did. But I see,” he wenton slowly, his face clouding again, “I see Mrs.Weatherbee had been talking to you about that tract.It’s strange I hadn’t thought of thatpossibility. I’ll wager she even tried tosell the land off a map, in Seattle. I wonder,though, when this Weatherbee trip was arranged tolook the property over, that she didn’t come,too. But no doubt that seemed too eager.”

The blue lights flashed in her eyes; her lip trembled.“Be fair,” she said. “You canafford to be—generous.”

“I am going to be generous, Miss Armitage, toyou.” The ready humor touched his mouthagain, the corners of his eyes. “I am goingto take you over the ground with me; show you Weatherbee’sproject, his drawn plans. But afterwards, ifyou outbid me—”

“You need not be afraid of that,” sheinterrupted quickly. “I—you mustknow”—she paused, her lashes drooped—“I—amnot very rich,” she finessed.

Tisdale laughed outright. “Neither am I.Neither am I.” Then, his glance studyingthe road, he said: “I think we take thatbranch. But wait!” He drew his map fromhis pocket and pored over it a moment. “Yes,we turn there. After that there is just one track.”

For an instant Miss Armitage seemed to waver.She sent a backward look to the river, and the glance,returning, swept Tisdale; then she straightened inher seat and swung the bays into the branch. Itcut the valley diagonally, away from the Wenatchee,past a last orchard, into wild lands that stretchedin level benches under the mountain wall. Onetawny, sage-mottled slope began to detach from therest; it took the shape of a reclining brazen beast,partly leopard, partly wolf, and a line of pine treesthat had taken root in a moist strata along the backbonehad the effect of a bristling mane.

“That is Weatherbee’s landmark,”said Tisdale. “He called it Cerberus.It is all sketched in true as life on his plans.The gap there under the brute’s paw is the entranceto his vale.”

As they approached, the mountain seemed to move; ittook the appearance of an animal, ready to spring.Miss Armitage, watching, shivered. The dreadfulexpectation she had shown the previous night when thecry of the cougar came down the wind, rose in herface. It was as though she had come upon thatbeast, more terrifying than she had feared, lying inwait for her. Then the moment passed. Sheraised her head, her hands tightened on the reins,and she drove resolutely into the shadows of the awfulfront. “Now,” she said, not quitesteadily, “now I know how monstrously alive amountain can seem.”

Tisdale looked at her. “You never couldlive in Alaska,” he said. “You feeltoo much this personality of inanimate things.That was David Weatherbee’s trouble. Youknow how in the end he thought those Alaska peakswere moving. They got to ‘crowding’him.”

The girl turned a little and met his look. Hereyes, wide with dread, entreated him. “Yes,I know,” she said, and her voice was almost awhisper. “I was thinking of him. Butplease don’t say any more. I can’t—bear it—here.”

So she was thinking of Weatherbee. Her emotionsprang from her sympathy for him. A gentlenessthat was almost tenderness crept over Tisdale’sface. How fine she was, how sensitively made,and how measureless her capacity for loving, if shecould feel like this for a man of whom she had onlyheard.

Miss Armitage, squaring her shoulders and sittingvery erect once more, her lips closed in a straightred line drove firmly on. A stream ran musicallyalong the road side,—a stream so small itwas marvelous it had a voice. As they roundedthe mountain, the gap widened into the mouth of thevale, which lifted back to an upper bench, over-toppedby a lofty plateau. Then she swung the team aroundand stopped. The way was cut off by a barbedwire fence.

The enclosure was apparently a corral for a flockof Angora goats. There was no gate for the passageof teams; the road ended there, and a rough sign nailedto a hingeless wicket warned the wayfarer to “KeepOut.” On a rocky knob near this entrancea gaunt, hard-featured woman sat knitting. Shemeasured the trespassers with a furtive, smoulderingglance and clicked her needles with unnecessary force.

Tisdale’s eyes made a swift inventory of thepoor shelter, half cabin, partly shed, that evidentlyhoused both the woman and her flock, then searchedthe barren field for some sort of hitching post.But the few bushes along the stream were small, keptlow, doubtless, by the browsing goats, and his glancerested on a fringe of poplars beyond the upper fence.

“There’s no way around,” he saidat last, and the amusem*nt broke softly in his face.“We will have to go through.”

“The wicket will take the team singly,”she answered, “but we must unhitch and leavethe buggy here.”

“And first, if you think you can hold the coltsthat long, I must tackle this thistle.”

“I can manage,” she said, and the sparklesdanced in her eyes, “unless you are vanquished.”

The woman rose and stood glowering while he sprangdown and drew the wooden pin to open the wicket.Then, “You keep off my land,” she orderedsharply. “I will, madam,” he answeredquietly, “as soon as I am satisfied it is yours.”

“I’ve lived on this claim ’mostfive years,” she screamed. “I’mhomesteading, and when I’ve used the water sevenyears, I get the rights.” She sprang backwardwith a cattish movement and caught up a gun that hadbeen concealed in some bushes. “Now yougo,” she said.

But Tisdale stayed. He stood weighing her withhis steady, appraising eyes, while he drew the townshipplat from his pocket.

“This is the quarter section I have come tolook up. It starts here, you see,”—andhaving unfolded the map, he turned to hold it underher glance—“at the mouth of thisgap, and lifts back through the pocket, taking inthe slopes to this bench and on up over this ridgeto include these springs.”

The woman, curbing herself to look at the plat, allowedthe rifle to settle in the curve of her arm.“I piped the water down,” she said.“This stream was a dry gully. I fencedand put up a house.”

“The tract was commuted and bought outrightfrom the Government over seven years ago.”Tisdale’s voice quickened; he set his lips dominantlyand folded the map. “I have copies of thefield notes with me and the owner’s landscapeplans. And I am a surveyor, madam. It won’ttake me long to find out whether there is a mistake.But, before I go over the ground, I must get my horsesthrough to a hitching-place. I will have to lowerthat upper fence, but if you will keep your goatstogether, I promise to put it back as soon as theteam is through.”

“You let that fence alone.” Tisdalehad started to cross the field, and she followed,railing, though the gun still rested in the hollowof her arm. “If one of those goats breaksaway, the whole herd’ll go wild. I can’tround ’em in without my dog. He’soff trailing one of the ewes. She strayed yesterday,and he’ll chase the mountain through if he hasto. It’s no use to whistle; he won’tcome back without her. You let that fence be.You wouldn’t dare to touch it,” she finishedimpotently, “if I had a man.”

“Haven’t you?” Tisdale swung around,and his voice dropped to its soft undernote.“That’s mighty hard. Who laid allthat water-pipe? Who built your house?”

“I did,” she answered grimly. “Theman who hauled my load of lumber stopped long enoughto help set the posts, but I did the rest.”

“You did?” Tisdale shook his head incredulously.“My! My! Made all the necessary improvements,single-handed, to hold your homestead and at the sametime managed these goats.”

The woman’s glance moved to the shack and outover the barren fields, and a shade of uncertaintycrept into her passionate eyes. “The improvementsdon’t make much of a show yet; I’ve hadto be off so much in the mountains, foraging withthe herd. But I was able to hire a boy half aday with the shearing this spring, and from now onthey’re going to pay. There are twenty-eightin the bunch, counting the kids, and I started withone old billy and two ewes.”

“My! My! what a record!” Tisdalepaused to look back at Miss Armitage, who had turnedthe bays, allowing them to pace down a length of roadand back.

“But,” he added, walking on, “whatled you to choose goats instead of sheep?”

“I didn’t do the choosing”; shemoved abreast of Hollis, “it was a fool man.”

“So,” he answered softly, with a glimmerof amusem*nt in his eyes, “there is a man, afterall.”

“There was,” she corrected grimly.“The easiest fellow to be talked over underthe sun; the kind always chasing off after a new scheme.First it was a mineral claim; then he banked the futureon timber, and when he got tired waiting for stumpageto soar, he put up a dinky sawmill to cut his owntrees. He was doing well, for him, getting outties for a new railroad—it was down inOregon—when he saw the chance to trade fora proved-up homestead. But it was the limit whenhe started out to buy a bunch of sheep and came backwith that old Angora billy and two ewes.”

“I see.” They were near the fence,and Tisdale swerved a little to reach a stout poplarthat formed the corner post. He saw that the wireends met there and felt in his pocket for his knife.“I see. And then he left the responsibilityto his wife.”

“The wedding hadn’t come off,” shesaid sharply. “It was fixed for the seventeenthof June, and that was only May. And I told himI couldn’t risk it—not in the faceof those goats.”

“And he?” pressed Hollis gently.This thistle, isolated, denied human intercourse,was more easily handled than he had hoped.

“He said it suited him all right. He hadbeen wanting to go to Alaska. Nothing but thatwedding had kept him back.”

Tisdale stopped and opened his knife. “Andhe went?” he asked.

“Yes.” The woman’s face workeda little, and she stood looking at him with hard,tragic eyes. “He sold the homestead forwhat he could get to raise the money to take him toDawson. He was gone in less than twenty-fourhours and before daylight, that night he left, I heardthose goats ma-a-ing under my window.He had staked them there in the front yard and tuckeda note, with his compliments, in the door. Hewrote he didn’t know of anything else he couldleave that would make me remember him better.”

Tisdale shook his head. “I wish I had beenthere.” He slipped the knife in betweenthe ends of the wires and the bole, clawing, prying,twisting. “And you kept them?” headded.

“Yes, I don’t know why, unless it wasbecause I knew it was the last thing he expected.But I hated them worse than snakes. I couldn’tstand it having them around, and I hired a boy toherd them out on his father’s farm. ThenI went on helping Dad, selling general merchandiseand sorting mail. But the post-office was movedthat year five miles to the new railroad station,and they put in a new man. Of course that meanta line of goods, too, and competition. Tradefell off, then sickness came. It lasted two years,and when Dad was gone, there wasn’t much leftof the store but debt.” She paused a moment,looking up to the serene sky above the high plateau.A sudden moisture softened her burning eyes, and herfree hand crept to her throat. “Dad wasa mighty fine man,” she said. “Hehad a great business head. It wasn’t hisfault he didn’t leave me well fixed.”

Tisdale laid the loosened wire down on the groundand started to work on another. “But therewas the man in Alaska,” he said. “Ofcourse you let him know.”

“No, sir.” Her eyes flashed backto Tisdale’s face. “You wouldn’thave caught me writing to Johnny Banks, then.I’m not that kind. The most I could dowas to see what I could make of the goats. I commencedherding them myself, but I hadn’t the face todo it down there in Oregon, where everybody knew me,and I gradually worked north with them until I endedhere.”

Tisdale had dropped his knife. He stooped topick it up. “That’s where you madeyour mistake,” he said.

The woman drew a step nearer, watching his face; tense,breathless. Clearly he had turned her thoughtsfrom the fence, and he slipped the knife in fartherand continued to pry and twist the wire loose.“How do you know it was a mistake?” sheasked at last.

Tisdale laid the second wire down. “Well,wasn’t it? To punish yourself like this,to cheat yourself out of the best years of your life,when you knew how much Banks thought of you.But you seem to have overlooked his side. Doyou think, when he knows how you crucified yourself,it’s going to make him any happier? Hecarried a great spirit bottled in that small, wiryframe, but he got to seeing himself through your eyes.He was ashamed of his failures—he had alwaysbeen a little sensitive about his size—andit wasn’t the usual enthusiasm that started himto Alaska; he was stung into going. It was likehim to play his poor joke gamily, at the last, andpretend he didn’t care. A word from youwould have held him—you must have knownthat—and a letter from you afterwards, whenyou needed him, would have brought him back.Or you might have joined him up there and made a homefor him all these years, but you chose to bury yourselfhere in the desert of the Columbia, starving yoursoul, wasting your best on these goats.”He paused with the last loosened wire in his handsand stood looking at her with condemning eyes.“What made you?” he added, and his voicevibrated softly. “What made you?”

The woman’s features worked; tears filled hereyes.

They must have been the first in many months, forthey came with the gush that follows a probe.“You know him,” she said brokenly.“You’ve seen him lately, up there in Alaska.”

“I think so, yes. The Johnny Banks I knewin the north told me something about a girl he leftdown in Oregon. But she was a remarkably prettygirl, with merry black eyes and a nice color in hercheeks. Seems to me she used to wear a pink gownsometimes, and a pink rose in her black hair, and madea picture that the fellows busy along the new railroadcame miles on Sundays to see.”

A bleak smile touched the woman’s mouth.“Dad always liked to see me wear nice clothes.He said it advertised the store.” Then herglance fell to her coarse, wretched skirt, and thecontrast struck poignantly.

Tisdale moved the wires back, clearing a space forthe bays to pass. “There was one youngengineer,” he went on, as though she had notspoken; “a big, handsome fellow, who came oftenerthan the rest. Banks thought it was natural sheshould favor him. The little man believes yetthat when he was out of the way she married that engineer.”

The woman was beyond speech. Tisdale had penetratedthe last barrier of her fortitude. The bitterness,pent so long, fostered in solitude, filled the ventand surged through. Her shoulders shook, she stumbleda few steps to the poplar and, throwing up her armagainst the bole, buried her face, sobbing, in hersleeve.

Tisdale looked back across the field. Miss Armitagewas holding the team in readiness at the wicket.“I am going now,” he said. “Youwill have to watch your goats until I get the horsesthrough. But if you will write that letter, madam,while I’m at work, I’ll be glad to mailit for you.”

The woman looked up. A sudden hope transfiguredher face. “I wish I dared to. Buthe wouldn’t know me now; I’ve changed so.Besides, I don’t know his address.”

“That’s so.” Tisdale met herglance thoughtfully. “But leave it to me.I think I can get into touch with him when I am backin Seattle.”

Miss Armitage watched him as he came swiftly acrossthe field. “Oh,” she cried, whenhe reached the waiting team, “how did you accomplish*t? Are you a magician?”

Hollis shook his head. “I only tried toplay a little on her heart-strings, to gain time,and struck an unexpected chord. But it’sall right. It’s going to do her good.”

CHAPTER XI

THE LOOPHOLE

The afternoon sun shone hot in that pocket; the aridslopes reflected the glare; heat waves lifted; thesnow-peak was shut out, and when a puff of wind foundthe gap it was a breath from the desert. MissArmitage, who had trailed pluckily after Tisdale throughthe sage-brush and up the steep face of the bench,rested on the level, while he hurried on to find theeasiest route to the high plateau and the spring.He had left her seated on a flat rock in the shadeof a sentinel pine tree, looking over the vale toCerberus and the distant bit of the Wenatchee showingbeyond the mouth, but as he came back along the ridge,he saw she had turned her shoulder on the crouchingmountain. At his far “Hello!” shewaved her hand to him and rose to start across thebench to meet him. He was descending a brokenstairway below two granite pillars that topped a semi-circularbluff and, springing from a knob to avoid a dry runnel,he shaped his way diagonally to abridge the distance.He moved with incredible swiftness, swinging by hishands to drop from a ledge, sliding where he must,and the ease and expediency with which he accomplishedit all brought the admiration sparkling to her eyes.

“I am sorry,” he said, as he drew near,“but there isn’t any easy way. It’stoo bad to have traveled so far and miss the spring,for the whole project hinges on it; but the climbis impossible for you in this heat.”

“Then you found the spring?” she askedquickly. “It was all the plans promised?”

“Yes.” He began to walk on acrossthe bench, suiting his steps to hers. “AndWeatherbee had put in a small dam there to create hisfirst reservoir. I found his old camp, too; afoundation of logs, open now to the sky, with a fewtatters left of the canvas that had roofed it over.”There was a silent moment, then he added, with theemotion still playing gently in his voice: “Iwish I could show you that place; the pool is crystalclear and cool, rimmed in pines, like a basin of opals.”

When they reached the flat rock in the shade of thepine tree, he took the reclamation plan from his innerpocket and seated himself beside her. “Thisis Weatherbee’s drawing,” he said.“See how carefully he worked in the detail.This is the spring and that upper reservoir, and thislower one is a natural dry basin up there under thatbluff, a little to the left of those granite chimneys;you can see its rocky rim. All it needs is thisshort flume sketched in here to bring the water down,and a sluice-gate to feed the main canal that followsthis bench we are on. Spillways would irrigatea peach orchard along this slope below us and seepout through this level around us to supply home gardensand lawn. Just imagine it!” He paused,while her glance followed his brief comparisons, movingfrom the plan to the surface of the bench and downover the slope to the vale. “Imagine thistract at the end of four years; a billowing sea ofgreen; with peach trees in bearing on this mountainside;apples, the finest Jonathans, Rome Beauties if youwill, beginning to make a showing down there.Water running, seeping everywhere; strawberries carpetingthe ground between the boles; alfalfa, cool and moist,filling in; and even Cerberus off there losing hissinister shape in vineyards.”

“Then it is feasible,” she exclaimed softly,and the sparkles broke subdued in her eyes. “Andthe price, Mr. Tisdale; what would you consider afair price for the property as it stands now, unimproved?”Tisdale rose. He paused to fold the drawing andput it away, while his glance moved slowly down overthe vale to the goat-keeper’s cabin and her browsingflock. “You must see, Miss Armitage,”he said then, “that idea of Mr. Morganstein’sto plat this land into five-acre tracts for the marketcouldn’t materialize. It is out of rangeof the Wenatchee valley projects; it is inaccessibleto the railroad for the small farmer. Only theman with capital to work it on a large scale couldmake it pay. And the property is Mrs. Weatherbee’slast asset; she is in urgent need of ready money.You should be able to make easy terms with her, butI warn you, if it comes to bidding, I am preparedto offer seven thousand dollars.”

He turned, frowning a little, to look down at herand, catching those covert sparkles of her side-glance,smiled.

“You may have it,” she said.

“Wait. Think it over,” he answered.“I am going down to the gap now to find thesurveyor’s monument and trace the section lineback to the top of the plateau. Rest here, whereit’s cooler, and I will come down this way foryou when I am through. Think the project overand take my word for the spring; it’s well worththe investment.”

Doubtless Miss Armitage followed his suggestion, forshe sat thoughtfully, almost absently, watching himdown the slope. At the foot of the vale, thegoat-woman joined him, and it was clear he again usedhis magic art, for presently he had her chaining forhim and holding an improvised flag, while he estimatedthe section line. But finally, when they leftthe bed of the pocket and began to cross-cut up theopposite mountainside, the girl rose and looked inthe direction of the spring. It was cooler; abreeze was drawing down from the upper ridge; a fewthin clouds like torn gauze veiled the sky overhead;the blue lost intensity. She began to walk acrossthe bench towards the granite chimneys. In a littlewhile she found the dry reservoir, walled, where theplateau lifted, in the semi-circular bluff; then shestopped at the foot of an arid gully that rose betweenthis basin and a small shoulder which supported thefirst needle. This was the stairway she had seenTisdale descend, and presently she commenced to climbit slowly, grasping bunches of the tenacious sage orjutting points of rock to ease her weight.

The stairs ended in a sharp incline covered with debrisfrom the decomposing pillars; splinters of graniteshifted under her tread; she felt the edges cuttingthrough her shoes. Fragments began to rattle down;one larger rock crashed over the bluff into the drybasin. Then, at last, she was on the level, fightingfor breath. She turned, trembling, and bracedherself against the broken chimney to look back.She shrank closer to the needle and shook her head.It was as though she said: “I never couldgo back alone.”

But when her glance moved to the opposite mountainside,Tisdale was no longer in sight. And that shoulderwas very narrow; it presented a sheer front to thevale, like the base of a monument, so that betweenthe chimney and the drop to the gully there was littleroom in which to stand. She began to choose acourse, picking her foothold cautiously, zigzaggingas she had seen Hollis do on the slope above.Midway another knob jutted, supporting a second pillarand a single pine tree, but as she came under thechimney she was forced to hurry. Loose chippingsof granite started at every step. They formedlittle torrents, undermining, rushing, threateningto sweep her down; and she reached the ledge in a panic.Then she felt the stable security of the pine againsther body and for a moment let herself go, sinkingto the foot of the tree and covering her eyes withher hands.

Up there a stiff wind was blowing, and presently shesaw the snow-peak she had missed in the vale.The ridge lifted less abruptly from this second spur,and in a little while she rose and pushed on, laggingsometimes, stumbling, to the level of the plateau.The Wenatchee range, of which it was a part, stretchedbleak and forbidding, enclosing all those minor aridgulfs down to the final, long, scarred headland set

against the Columbia desert. She was like a womanstranded, the last survivor, on an inhospitable coast.Turning to look across the valley of the Wenatchee,she saw the blue and glaciered crests of the Chelanmountains, and behind her, over the neck of a loftierheight, loomed other white domes. And there yesterday’sthunder-caps, bigger and blacker, with fringed edges,drove along the sky line. One purplish mass wasstreaming like a sieve. For an interval the sunwas obscured, and her glance came back to the valebelow where Cerberus reclined, watchful, his tawnyhead lifted slightly between two advanced paws.Suddenly the lower clouds grew brilliant, and shaftsof light breaking through changed the mountain beforeher to a beast of brass.

She turned and began to pick her way through greasebrush and insistent sage towards a grove of pines.In a little while she saw water shining through thetrees. She hesitated—it was as thoughshe had come to the threshold of a sanctuary—thenwent on under the boughs to the opal pool.

She remained in the grove a long time. When shereappeared, the desert eastward was curtained in agray film. Torn breadths of it, driven by somelocal current of air, formed tented clouds along thepromontory. It was as though yesterday’sarmy was marshalled against other hosts that held theChelan heights. A twilight indistinctness settledover the valley between. Rain, a downpour, wasnear. She hurried on to the brow of the plateau,but she dared not attempt to go down around thosecrumbling chimneys alone. And Tisdale had saidhe would come back this side of the vale. Anymoment he might appear. She turned to go backto the shelter of the pines. It was then a firstelectrical flash, like a drawn sword, challenged theopposite ridge. Instantly a searchlight fromthe encamped legions played over the lower plain.She turned again, wavering, and began to run on overthe first dip of the slope and along to the firstpillar. There she stopped, leaning on the rock,trembling, yet trying to force down her fear.It was useless; she could not venture over that streamof shifting granite. She started back, then stopped,wavering again. After a moment she lifted hervoice in a clear, long call: “Mr. Tis—da—le!”

“I’m coming!” The answer rang surprisinglyclose, from the gully above the basin. Soon shediscovered him and, looking up, he saw her standingclear-cut against a cavernous, dun-colored cloud, which,gathering all lesser drift into its gulf, drove lowtowards the plateau. She turned her face, watchingit, and it seemed to belch wind like a bellows, forher skirt stiffened, and the loosened chiffon veil,lifting from her shoulders, streamed like the draperyof some aerial figure, poised there briefly on itsflight through space. Then began cannonading.Army replied to army. The advancing film fromthe desert, grown black, became an illuminated scroll;thin ribbons of gold were traced on it, bowknots oftinsel. The pattern changed continually.The legions repeated their fire; javelins, shafts,flew. Lightning passed in vertical bolts, in sheetsfrom ridge to ridge. Then the cloud approachingthe plateau spoke, and the curtain moving from theColumbia became a wall of doom, in which great cracksyawned, letting the light of eternity through.

The girl was flying down the slope to meet Tisdale.She came with bent head, hands to her ears, skimmingthe pitfalls. Under her light tread the loosedebris hardly stirred. Then, as he rounded thepillar, her pace slackened. “I am afraid,”she said and stumbled. “I am afraid.”And her trembling body sank against his arm; she buriedher face in his coat. “Take me away fromthis terrible place.”

Her impact had started the splintered granite moving,but Hollis swung instantly and set his back to thecrumbling chimney, clinging there, staying her withhis arm, until the slide stopped.

“See here,” he said, and his voice vibratedits soft undernote, “you mustn’t loseyour grip. It’s all right. Old MotherNature is just having one of her scolding fits.She has to show the woman in her once in a while.But it’s going to end, any minute, in tears.”

She lifted her face, and he paused, knitting his brows,yet smiling a little, mastering the terror in hereyes with his quiet, compelling gaze. “Come,Miss Armitage,” he said, “we must hurry.You will be wet through.”

He took her hand and began to lead her quickly downthe rugged staircase. “Be careful,”he admonished, “this granite is treacherous.”But she gave little heed to her steps; she lookedback continually over her shoulder, watching the duncloud. Presently she tripped. Hollis turnedto steady her, and, himself looking up beyond her,caught her in his arms and ran, springing, out ofthe gully.

The ledge he reached formed the rim of the naturalreservoir and, measuring the distance with a swiftglance, he let himself over, easing the drop withone hand on the rocky brink, while the other arm supportedher. Midway, on a jutting knob, he gathered momentaryfoothold, then swung to the bottom of the basin.

It was all done surely but with incredible haste,while the cavernous cloud drew directly overhead.The next instant, from its brazen depths, it spokeagain. The whole mountain seemed to heave.Then something mighty crashed down. The basinsuddenly darkened as though a trap door had closed,and Tisdale, still shielding his companion, stood lookingup, listening, while the reverberations rang fromslope to slope and filled the vale. Then silencecame.

Miss Armitage drew erect, though her hand rested unconsciouslyon Tisdale’s sleeve. The thing that roofedthe basin was black, impenetrably thick; in it shesaw no possible loophole of escape. “Thistime,” she faltered, “Fate is againstyou.”

Her breast rose and fell in deep, hurried breaths;in the twilight of the basin her eyes, meeting his,shone like twin stars. Tisdale’s blood beganto race; it rose full tide in his veins, “Fateis with me,” he answered, and bent and kissedher mouth.

She shrank back, trembling, against the rocky wall;she glanced about her with the swift, futile mannerof a creature helplessly trapped, then she pressedher fingers an instant to her eyes and straightened.“You never will forgive yourself,” shesaid; not in anger, not in judgment, but in a toneso low, so sad, it seemed to express not only regretbut finality.

Tisdale was silent. After a moment he turnedto the lower side of the basin, which afforded betterfoothold than the wall he had descended, and beganto work up from niche to ledge, grasping a chance bunchof sage, a stunted bush of chaparral that grew ina cranny, to steady himself. And the girl stoodaloof, watching him. Finally he reached a shelfthat brought him, in touch with the obstruction overheadand stopped to take out his pocketknife, with whichhe commenced to create a loophole. Little twigsrained down; a larger branch fell, letting the daylightthrough. The roof was a mesh of pine boughs.

At last he closed his knife and, taking firm holdon a fixed limb, leaned to reach his other palm downto her. “Come,” he said, “setyour foot in that first niche—no, the leftone. Now, give me your hand.”

She obeyed as she must, and Hollis pushed backwardthrough the aperture he had made, getting the boughunder one armpit. “Now, step to that jaggedlittle spur; it’s solid. The right one,too; there’s room.” She gained theupper ledge and waited, hugging the wall pluckily whilehe worked out on the rim of the basin and, stretchingfull length, with the stem of the tree under his waist,reached his arms down to her. “You willhave to spring a little,” he directed, “andgrip my shoulders hard. Now, come!”

At last she was safe beside him. In another momenthe was up and helped her to her feet. They stoodlooking towards the mountain top. The dun cloudstalking now with trailing skirts in the directionof the snow-peaks, hurled back a parting threat.“It was the pine tree,” she exclaimed.“It was struck. And, see! It has carrieddown most of that chimney. Our staircase is completelywrecked.”

Tisdale was silent. Her glance came back to him.A sudden emotion stirred her face. Then all theconservatism dropped from her like a discarded cloak,and he felt her intrepid spirit respond to his own.Now she understood that moment in the basin; she knewit had been supreme; she was great enough to see therewas nothing to forgive. “You were right,”she said, and her voice broke in those steadying pausesthat carried more expression than any words.“Fate was with us again. But I owe—mylife—to you.”

“Sometime,” he answered slowly, smilinga little, “not now, not here, I am going tohold you to the debt. And when I do, you are goingto pay me—in full.”

The beautiful color, that was like the pink of coral,flamed and went in her face. “We must hurryback to the team,” she said and turned to finishthe descent to the bench. “Horses are alwaysso nervous in an electrical storm.” Thensuddenly, as Tisdale pushed by to help her in a difficultplace, she stopped. “How strange!”she exclaimed. “That terrible curtain haslifted from the desert. It threatened a delugeany minute, and now it is moving off without a dropof rain.”

“That’s so,” he replied. “Across current of wind has turned it up the Columbia.But the rain is there; it is streaming along thoseChelan summits in a downpour.”

“And look!” she cried, after a moment.“A double rainbow! See how it spans theWenatchee! It’s a promise.” Andthe turquoise lights shone once more in her eyes.“Here in this desert, at last, I may come tomy ’pot of gold.’”

“You mean,” responded Tisdale, “nowyou have seen the spring, Weatherbee’s projectseems possible to you. Well, I have reconsidered,too. I shall not outbid you. That wouldfavor Mrs. Weatherbee too much. And my interestsare going to keep me in Alaska indefinitely. Ishould be obliged to leave the plans in the handsof a manager, and I had rather trust them to you.”

Miss Armitage did not answer directly. She waswatching the arch, painted higher now, less brilliantly,on the lifting film. The light had gone out ofher face. All the bench was in shadow; in thevalley below a twilight indistinctness had fallen.Then suddenly once more Cerberus stood forth likea beast of brass. She shivered.

“It isn’t possible,” she said.“It isn’t possible. Even if I dared—forDavid’s sake—to assume the responsibility,I haven’t the money to carry the project through.”

Tisdale stopped and swung around. They had reachedthe flat rock under the sentinel pine tree. “Didyou know David Weatherbee?” he asked.

She was silent. He put his hands in his pocketsand stood regarding her with his upward look fromunder slightly frowning brows. “So you knewDavid,” he went on. “In California,I presume, before he went to Alaska. But whydidn’t you tell me so?”

She waited another moment. In the great stillnessHollis heard her labored breathing. She put outher hand, steadying herself on the bole of the pine,then: “I’ve wanted to tell you,”she began. “I’ve tried to—but—itwas impossible to make you understand. I—Ihadn’t the courage.”

Her voice fluted and broke. The last word wasalmost a whisper. She stood before Tisdale withveiled eyes, breath still coming hard and quick, thelovely color deepening and paling in her face, likea woman awaiting judgment. And it came over himin a flash, with the strength of conviction, thatthis beautiful, inscrutable girl wished him to knowshe had loved Weatherbee. Incredible as it seemed,she had been set aside for the Spanish woman.And she had learned about David’s project; hehimself perhaps had told her years ago in California.And though his wife had talked with Morganstein aboutplatting the land into five-acre tracts to disposeof quickly, this woman had desired to see the propertywith a view to carrying out his plans. That waswhy she had continued the journey from SnoqualmiePass alone. That was why she had braved the mountaindrive with him. She had loved Weatherbee.This truth, sinking slowly, stirred his inner consciousnessand, wrenched in a rising commotion, something fardown in the depths of him lost hold. He had presumedto think, in the infinite scheme of things, this one

woman had been reserved for him. He had daredto let her know he believed so; he had taken advantageof her helpless situation, on an acquaintance of twodays. His own color began to burn through thetan. “You were right,” he said atlast, very gently, “I never can forgive myself.I can’t understand it!” he broke out then,“if you had been his wife, David Weatherbeewould have been safe with us here, to-day.”

Miss Armitage started. She gave him a quick,searching glance, then sank down upon the rock.She seemed suddenly exhausted, like a woman who, hard-pressedin the midst of peril, finds unexpectedly a friendlythreshold.

Tisdale looked off to the brazen slopes of Cerberus.It was the first time he had censured Weatherbee foranything, and suddenly, while he brooded, protestingover that one paramount mistake, he felt himself unaccountablyresponsible. He was seized with a compelling desireto, in some way, make it up to her. “Come,”he said, “you mustn’t lose heart; to-morrow,when you are rested, it will look easier. Andthe question of ready money need not trouble you.Mrs. Weatherbee has reached the point where she hasgot to hedge on the future. Make her an offerof five thousand dollars in yearly payments, say,of fifteen hundred. She’ll take it.Then, if you agree, I will arrange a loan with a Seattlebank. I should allow enough margin to cover thefirst reclamation expenses. Your fillers of alfalfaand strawberries would bring swift returns, and beforeyour orchards came into bearing, your vineyards wouldpay the purchase price on the whole tract.”

He turned to her, smiling, and surprised a despairin her face that went to his heart.

“I thought, I hoped you meant to buy this land,”she said.

“So I did, so I do, unless you decide to.And if you undertake this project, I pledge myselfto see you through.” His voice caught apleading undernote. “It rests with you.Above every one it rests with you to even things forWeatherbee. Isn’t that clear to you?Look ahead five years; see this vale green and shadywith orchards; the trees laden with harvest; imaginehis wife standing here on this bench, surveying itall. See her waking to the knowledge she haslet a fortune slip through her hands; see her, thepurchase price spent, facing the fact that anotherwoman built her faith on David Weatherbee; had thecourage to carry out his scheme and found it a bonanza.That is what is going to make her punishment strikehome.”

Miss Armitage rose. She stood a moment watchinghis face, then, “How you hate her!” shesaid.

“Hate?” Tisdale’s laugh rang shortand hard. “Well, I grant it; hate is theword. I hate her so much I’ve known betterthan go where she was; I’ve avoided her as anelectrician avoids charged wire. Still, if I hadfound myself in Weatherbee’s place; if I hadmade his mistake and married her, she should havefelt my streak of iron. I might have stayed in

Alaska as he did, but she would have stayed too andmade a home for me, helped to fight things through.”He paused and, meeting the appeal in her eyes, hisface softened. “I’ve distressed youagain,” he added. “I’m sorry;but it isn’t safe for me to speak of that woman;the thought of her starts my temperature rising inbounds. I want you to help me forget her.Yet, down in the depths of your heart you know youblame her.”

“Yes, I blame her.” Miss Armitagebegan to walk on towards the edge of the bench.“I blame her, but not as you do. I knowshe tried to do right; she would have gone to Alaska—ifDavid had wished it—at the start. Andshe’s been courageous, too. She’ssmiled—laughed in the face of defeat.Her closest friends never knew.”

“You defend her. I wonder at that.”Tisdale passed her and turned to offer his help downthe first abrupt pitch. “How you, who arethe one to censure her the most, can speak for heralways, as you do. But there you are like Weatherbee.It was his way to take the losing side; champion theabsent.”

“And there is where your resemblance stops,”she answered quickly. “He lacked your streakof iron. Of course you know about your strangelikeness to him, Mr. Tisdale. It is so very marked;almost a dual personality. It isn’t heightand breadth of shoulder alone; it’s in the carriage,the turn of the head; and it creeps into your eyessometimes; it gets into your voice. The firsttime I saw you, it was startling.”

Tisdale moved on, picking up the trail they had madein ascending; the humor began to play reminiscentlyat the corners of his mouth. “Yes, I knowabout that resemblance. When we were on the Tanana,it was ’Tisdale’s Twin’ and ‘Dave’sDouble.’ A man has to take a name that fitsup there, and we seemed to grow more alike every day.But that often happens when two friends who are accustomedto think in the same channels are brought into continualtouch, and the first year we spent in the north togetherwe were alone for weeks at a stretch, with no otherhuman intercourse, not a prospector’s camp withina hundred miles. The most incompatible partners,under those circ*mstances, will pick up subconsciouslytricks of speech and gesture. Still, lookingback, I see it was I who changed. I had to liveup to Weatherbee; justify his faith in me.”

Miss Armitage shook her head slowly. “Thatis hard to believe. Whoever tried to mould youwould feel through the surface that streak of iron.”They had come to another precipitous place, and Tisdaleturned again to give her the support of his hand.The position brought his face on a level with hers,and involuntarily she stopped. “But whateveryou may say, Mr. Tisdale,” she went on, andas her palm rested in his the words gathered the weightof a pact, “whatever may—happen—Ishall never forget your greatness to-day.”She sprang down beside him, and drew away her handand looked back to the summit they had left.“Still, tell me this,” she said with aswift breathlessness. “If it had been DavidWeatherbee’s wife up there with you when thethunderbolt struck, would it have made a difference?I mean, would you have left her to escape—ornot—as she could?”

Tisdale waited a thoughtful moment. The rippleof amusem*nt was gone; the iron, so near the surface,cropped through. “I can’t answer that,”he said. “I do not know. A man isnot always able to control a first impulse, and beforethat pine tree fell there wasn’t time to hesitate.”

At this she was silent. All her buoyancy, thecharming camaraderie that stopped just short of intimacy,had dropped from her. It was as though the atmosphereof that pocket rose and clung to her, enveloped herlike a nimbus, as she went down. In the pentheat her face seemed cold. She had the appearanceof being older. The fine vertical line at thecorner of her mouth, which Tisdale had not noticedbefore, brought a tightness to his throat when heventured to look at her. How could Weatherbeehave been so blind? How could he have missedthe finer, spiritual loveliness of this woman?Weatherbee, who himself had been so sensitive; whoseintuition was almost feminine.

They had reached the final step from the bench tothe floor of the vale when Hollis spoke again.“If you do decide to buy this land and open theproject, I could recommend a man who would make a trustymanager.”

“Oh, you don’t understand,” shereplied in desperation “You don’t understand.I should have to stay, to live in this terrible placefor weeks, months at a time. I couldn’tendure it. That dreadful mountain there at thegap would forever be watching me, holding me in.”

Tisdale looked at her, knitting his brows, “Itold you it was dangerous to allow yourself to feelthe personality of inanimate things too much.”

“I know. I know. And this terriblebeast”—she paused, trying to steadyher voice; her whole body trembled—“wouldremind me constantly of those awful Alaska peaks—theones that crowded—threatened him.”

Tisdale’s face cleared. So that was thetrouble. Now he understood. “Thenit’s all right”—the minor notesin his voice, vibrating softly, had the quality ofa caress—“don’t worry any more.I am going to buy this land of David’s.Trust me to see the project through.”

CHAPTER XII

“Whom the gods would destroy”

Hope is an insistent thing. It may be strangled,lie cold and buried deep in the heart of a man, yetsuddenly, without premonition, he may feel it riseand stretch small hands, groping towards a ray of light.So in that reminiscent hour while the train laboredup through the Cascades to the great tunnel, Tisdaletold himself this woman—the one woman forwhom he must have been waiting all these years, atwhose coming old and cherished memories had fadedto shadows—was very near to loving him.Already she knew that those mysterious forces shecalled Fate had impelled them out of their separateorbits through unusual ways, to meet. Sometime—hewould not press her, he could be patient—butsometime she would surely pay him that debt.

He dwelt with new interest on his resemblance to Weatherbee,and he told himself it was her constancy to Davidthat had kept her safe. Then it came over himthat if Weatherbee had married her instead of the Spanishwoman, that must have been an insurmountable barrierbetween them to-day. As long as they lived, shemust have remained sacred on her pedestal, out ofreach. But how nobly partisan she was; how readyto cross swords for Weatherbee’s wife.That was the incredible test; her capacity for lovingwas great.

The porter was turning on the lights. Tisdalemoved a little and looked across the aisle. Forthat one moment he was glad Weatherbee had made hismistake. She was so incomparable, so adorable.Any other woman must have lost attractiveness, shownat least the wear and tear of that mountain journey,but her weariness appealed to him as her buoyancy hadnot. She had taken off her hat to rest her headon the high, cushioned back of the seat, and the droopingcurves of her short upper lip, the blue shadows underthose outward curling black lashes, roused a new emotion,the paternal, in the depths of his great heart.He wished to smooth her ruffled hair; it was so soft,so vital; under the electric light it seemed to flashlittle answering blue sparks. Then his glancefell to her relaxed palms, open in her lap, and hefelt a quick solicitude over a scratch the barbedfence must have made on one small, determined thumb.

They had had trouble with the horses in the vale.Nip, who had broken away during the storm, had beenrounded in by the goat-woman and her returning collie.The travelers found her trying to extricate his halterwhich had caught, holding him dangerously close, inthe wire fencing. It had taken caution and longpatience to free him, and more to hitch the excitedteam. The delay had caused them to miss the westboundevening train; they were forced to drive back andspend the night at Wenatchee. And the morningOriental Limited was crowded with delegates from somemystic order on an annual pilgrimage. There wasno room in the observation car; Tisdale was able tosecure only single seats on opposite sides of the sleeper.

The train rumbled through the great tunnel and cameto a brief stop outside the west portal. It wassnowing. Some railroad laborers, repairing thetrack, worked in overcoats and sweaters, hat brimsdrawn down, collars turned up against the bitter wind.The porter opened the transoms, and a piercing draughtpulled through the smoky, heat-laden car. MissArmitage sat erect and inhaled a full breath.She looked across at Tisdale, and the sparkles brokesoftly in her eyes. “It’s Wellington!”she exclaimed. “In a moment we shall beracing down to Scenic Hot Springs and on along theSkykomish—home.” Then she stoppedthe porter. “Bring me a telegraph blank,please. I want to send a message from the Springs.”

The limited, under way again, dropped below the cloud.Great peaks and shoulders lifted everywhere; theybegan to make the loop around an incredibly deep andfissure-like gorge. It was a wonderful feat ofrailroad engineering; people on the other side of thecar got to their feet and came over to see. Thegirl, with the yellow blank in her hand, drew closeto Tisdale’s elbow. “Oh, no,”she demurred, when he rose to offer his seat, “Ionly want standing room just a moment. There’sgoing to be a delightful view of Scenic.”

The passenger beside Hollis picked up his bag.“Take my place,” he said. “Iam getting off at the Springs.”

Then presently, when she had moved into the vacatedseat next the window, the peaks stood apart, and far,far below the untouched forest at the summer resortstood out darkly, with the gay eaves and gables ofthe hotel etched on it like a toy Swiss chalet ona green plateau.

“Oh,” she cried softly, “it neverseemed as charming before; but, of course, it is coming,as we have, straight from the hot desert. There’sthe coolest, fragrant wood road down there, Mr. Tisdale,from the hotel to Surprise Falls. It followsthe stream past deep green pools and cascades breakingamong the rocks. Listen. We should hear theriver now.”

Tisdale smiled. There was nothing to be heardbut the echo of the running trucks and the screamof the whistle repeated from cliff and spur. Theywere switchbacking down the fire-scarred front of amountain. He bent a little to look beyond her.It was as though they were coasting down a tiltedshelf in an oblique wall, and over the blackened skeletonsof firs he followed the course of the river out throughcrowding blue buttes. Returning, his glance tracedthe track, cross-cutting up from the gorge.

“I know Surprise Falls,” he said; “andthe old Skykomish from start to finish. There’sa point below the Springs where the current boils throughgreat flumes of granite into a rocky basin. Longbefore the hotel was thought of, I fished that pool.”

“I know! I know!” she responded,glowing. “We—Miss Morgansteinand her brother and I—found it this summer.We had to work down-stream across those fissures toreach it, but it was worth the trouble. Therenever was another such pool. It was like a mightybowl full of dissolving emeralds; and the trout lovedit. We caught twenty, and we built a fire on therocks and cooked them. It was delightfully cooland shady. It was one of those golden days onenever forgets; I was sorry when it was gone.”She paused, the high wave of her excitement passed.“I never could live in that treeless country,”she went on. “Water, running as God madeit, plenty of it, is a necessity to me. But pleasetake your seat, Mr. Tisdale.” She settledback in her place and began to date her telegram.“I am just sending the briefest message to letMrs. Feversham know where I am.”

“The porter is coming back for it now,”he answered “And thank you, but I am going inthe smoking-car.”

As he approached the vestibule, he caught her reflectionin the mirror at the end of the sleeper. Shewas looking after him, and she leaned forward a littlewith parted lips, as though she had started to callhim back, but her eyes clouded in uncertainty; thensuddenly, the sparkle rose. It suffused her wholeface. She had met his glance in the glass.And the porter was waiting. She settled herselfonce more and devoted herself to the telegram.

The lines in Tisdale’s face deepened mellowly.He believed that, now they were so near their journey’send, she wanted to be sure of an opportunity to thankhim some more. “I am coming back,”he said inwardly, addressing the woman in the mirror,“but I must have a smoke to keep my pulse normal.”

But he did not return to the sleeper, for the reasonthat at Scenic Hot Springs the Seattle papers werebrought aboard. The copy of the Press hebought contained the account of the accident in SnoqualmiePass. The illustrations were unusually clear,and Daniels’ cuts were supplemented by anotherlabelled: “The Morganstein party leavingVivian Court,” which also designated the group.

(Mrs. Feversham, wife of the special delegate fromAlaska, in the tonneau.

Her sister, Miss Morganstein, on her right.

Mrs. Weatherbee seated in front.

Frederic Morganstein driving the car.)

And under the central picture Hollis read: “Mrs.Weatherbee (Miss
Armitage?), as she drove the machine into the embankment.”

The paper rattled a little in his hands. Hisface flamed, then settled gray and very still.Except that his eyes moved, flashing from the photographsto the headlines, he might have been a man hewn ofgranite. “One more reason why the Snoqualmiehighway should be improved,” he read. “Narrowescape of the Morganstein party. Mrs. Weatherbee’spresence of mind.” And, half-way down thepage, “Mrs. Weatherbee modestly assumes an incognitowhen interviewed by a representative of the Press.”

But Tisdale did not look at the story. He crushedthe newspaper into the corner of his seat and turnedhis face to the window. His cigar had gone out.He laid it mechanically on the sill. So, thiswas the woman who had wrecked David Weatherbee; whohad cast her spell over level-headed Foster; and already,in the less than three days he had known her, had madea complete idiot of him. Suppose Foster shouldhear about that drive through the mountains that hadcost him over seven hundred dollars; suppose Fostershould know about that episode in the basin on Weatherbee’sown ground. A great revulsion came over him.

Presently he began to take up detail after detailof that journey. Now he saw the real impulsethat had led her to board the eastbound train in SnoqualmiePass. She had recognized him, conjectured he wason his way to find that tract of Weatherbee’s;and she had determined to go over the land with him,cajole him into putting the highest estimate possibleon the property. Even now, there in the sleeper,she was congratulating herself no doubt on the successof her scheme.

At the thought of the ease with which he had allowedhimself to be ensnared, his muscles tightened.It was as though the iron in the man took shape, shookoff the veneer, encased him like a coat of mail.Hitherto, in those remote Alaska solitudes, this wouldhave meant the calling to account of some transgressorin his camp. He began to sift for the prime elementin this woman’s wonderful personality. Itwas not physical beauty alone; neither was it thatmysterious magnetism, almost electrical, yet delicatelyresponsive as a stringed instrument. One of thesemight have kept that tremendous hold on Weatherbeenear, but on Weatherbee absent through those long,breaking years, hardly. It was something deeper;something elusive yet insistent that had made it easierfor him to brave out his defeat alone in the Alaskawilderness than come back to face. Clearly shewas not just the handsome animal he had believed herto be. Had she not called herself proud?Had he not seen her courage? She had a spiritto break. A soul!

CHAPTER XIII

“A LITTLE STREAK OF LUCK”

It was not the first time Jimmie Daniels had entertainedthe Society Editor at the Rathskeller, and that Monday,though he had invited her to lunch with him in theVenetian room, she asked him, as was her habit, to“order for both.”

“Isn’t there something special you’dlike?” he asked generously; “somethingyou haven’t had for a long time?”

“No. You are so much of an epicure—fora literary person—I know it’s sureto be something nice. Besides,” and theshadow of a smile drifted across her face, “itsaves me guessing the state of your finances.”

A critic would have called Geraldine Atkins too slenderfor her height, and her face, notwithstanding itsgirlish freshness, hardly pretty. The chin, inspite of its dimple, was too strong; the lips, scarletas a holly berry, lacked fullness and had a trickof closing firmly over her white teeth. Evenher gray-blue eyes, which should have been a dreamer’s,had acquired a direct intensity of expression as thoughthey were forever seeking the inner, real you.Still, from the rolling brim of her soft felt hatto the hem of her brown tailor-made, that cleared theankles of trim brown shoes, she was undeniably chicand in the eyes of Jimmie Daniels “mighty nice.”

He was longer than usual filling out the card, andthe waiter hesitated thoughtfully when he had readit, then be glanced from the young man to his companionwith a comprehensive smile and hurried away. Therewas chilled grapefruit in goblets with cracked ice,followed by bouillon, oysters, and a delectable youngduck with toast. But it was only when the manbrought a small green bottle and held it for Jimmieto approve the label that his guest began to archher brows.

Daniels smiled his ingenuous smile. “It’sjust to celebrate a little streak of luck,”he said. “And I owe it to you. If youhadn’t been at Vivian Court to write up thedecorations for that bridge-luncheon and happenedto make that snap-shot of the Morganstein party, myleading lady would have gone to the paper as MissArmitage straight, and I guess that would have queeredme with the chief. But that headline you introducedabout Mrs. Weatherbee’s incognito struck himright. ‘Well, Jimmie,’ he said, ‘you’vesaved your scalp this time.’”

The Society Editor smiled. “You were agullible kiddie,” she replied. “Butit’s a mystery to me how you could have livedin Seattle three years without knowing the prettiestwoman on the boulevard by sight.”

Jimmie shook his head. “I haven’tthe shadow of an excuse, unless it was because anothergirl was running such a close second she always cutoff my view.”

“Think,” said Miss Atkins quickly, disregardingthe excuse, “if that name, Miss Armitage, hadbeen tagged to a picture that half the town would haverecognized. Mrs. Weatherbee is the most popularlady, socially, in Seattle. When there’sa reception for a new Council, she’s always inthe receiving line; she pours tea at the tennis tournament,and it was she who led the cotillion at the Charityball. You would find her name in all the importantaffairs, if you read the society column.”

Daniels nodded meekly. “It was a hairbreadthescape, and I’m mighty grateful.”

There was a little silence then, but after the waiterhad filled the long-stemmed glasses and hurried away,she said slowly, her gray-blue eyes sifting Jimmiethrough and through: “It looks like you’vebeen playing cards for money, but I never should havesuspected it—of you.”

Daniels shook his head gravely. “No get-rich-quickgames for me. My luck doesn’t come thatway. But it cost me nearly two thousand dollarsto find it out. I’ve always meant to tellyou about that, sometime. That two thousand dollarswas all my capital when I came to Seattle to take mycourse in journalism. I expected it to see methrough. But, well, it was my first week at theUniversity—fortunately I had paid the expensesof the first semester in advance—when onenight a couple of fellows I knew brought me down tosee the town. I didn’t know much about acity then; I had grown up over in the sage-brush country,and I never had heard of a highball. To startwith I had two, then I got interested in a game ofroulette, and the last I remember I was learning toplay poker. But I must have had more high-balls;the boys said afterwards they left me early in theevening with a new acquaintance; they couldn’tget me to go home. I never knew how I got backto the dorm, and the next day, when I woke, the stubsof my checkbook showed I had signed practically allof my two thousand away.”

There was a brief silence. Out in the main roomthe orchestra began to play. Miss Atkins waslooking at Jimmie, and her scarlet lips were closedlike a straight cord.

He drew his hand over his smooth, close-cut, darkhair and took a long draught from his glass of ice-water.“I can’t make you understand how I feltabout it,” he went on, “but that two thousandwas the price of my father’s ranch over nearthe Columbia. It stood for years of privation,heart-breaking toil, and disappointment—theworst kind. Two seasons of drouth we saw thewhole wheat crop blister and go to ruin. I carriedwater in buckets from the river up to that plateauday after day, just to keep our home garden and alittle patch of grass alive. And mother carriedtoo up that breaking slope in the desert sun.It was thinking of that made me— all in.She worked the same way with the stock. Somethinglacking in the soil affected the feed, and some ofthe calves were born without hair; their bones weresoft. It baffled my father and every man alongthat rim of the desert, but not mother. She saiddoctors prescribed lime for rickety human babies,and she made limewater and mixed it with the feed.It was just the thing. She was a small woman,but plucky from start to finish. And we, Dadand I, didn’t know what it was costing her—tillshe was gone.”

There was another silence. In the orchestra,out beyond the palms and screens of the Venetian room,the first violin was playing the Humoresque.The girl leaned forward slightly, watching Jimmie’sface. Her lips were parted, and an unexpectedsympathy softened her eyes.

“She had been a school teacher back in Iowa,”he resumed, “and long winter evenings and Sundayswhen she could, she always had her books out.Up to the year I was twenty, she taught me all I knew.She tried her best to make a man of me, and I cansee now how she turned my mind to journalism.She said some day there was going to be an openingfor a newspaper right there in the Columbia desert.Where a great river received the waters of anotherbig stream, there was bound to be a city. Shesaw farther than we did. The High Line canalwas only a pipe dream then, but she believed it wouldcome true. When she died, we hadn’t theheart to stay on with the ranch, so Dad gave it tome, to sell for what I could get, and went back toIowa. He said he had promised her he would giveme a chance at the State University, and that wasthe best he could do. And, well, you see I hadto come to the U. of W. to stay, and I was used towork. I did all sorts of stunts out of hoursand managed to pull through the second semester.Then I hiked over the mountains to the Wenatchee valleyand earned enough that summer vacation to tide meover the next year. I had a friend there in thesage-brush country, a station agent named Bailey, whohad blown a thousand dollars into a tract of desertland he hadn’t seen off the map. He wasthe kind of fellow to call himself all kinds of afool, then go ahead and make that ground pay his moneyback. He saw a way to bring it under irrigationand had it cleared and set to apples. But, while

he was waiting for the trees to grow, he put in fillersof alfalfa and strawberries. He was operatingfor the new Milwaukee railroad then, and hired meto harvest his crops. They paid my wages and thetwo Japs I had to help, with a snug profit. Andhis trees were doing fine; thrifty, every one in thetwenty acres. Last year they began to bear, onlya few apples to a tree, but for flavor and size fitfor Eden. This year he is giving up his positionwith the Milwaukee; his orchards are going to makehim rich. And he wrote me the other day that theold ranch I threw away is coming under the new HighLine ditch. The company that bought it has plattedit into fruit tracts. Think-of that! Treesgrowing all over that piece of desert. Waterrunning to waste, where mother and I carried it inbuckets through the sand, in the sweltering heat, upthat miserable slope.”

The Society Editor drew a full breath and settledback in her chair. Her glance fell to her glass,and she laid her fingers on the thin stem. Jimmierefreshed himself again with the ice-water. “Ididn’t mean to go into the story so deep,”he said, “but you are a good listener.”

“It was worth listening to,” she answeredearnestly. “I’ve always wonderedabout your mother; I knew she must have been nice.But you must simply hate the sight of cards now.I am sorry I said what I did. And I don’tcare how it happened, here is to that ‘LittleStreak of Luck.’ May it lead to the greatpay-streak.”

She reached her glass out for Jimmie to touch withhis, then raised it to her lips. Daniels drankand held his glass off to examine the remaining liquor,like a connoisseur. “I play cards a littlesometimes,” he confessed; “on boats andplaces where I have to kill time. But,”and he brightened, “it was this way about thatstreak of luck. I was detailed to write up thenew Yacht Club quarters at West Seattle, with illustrationsto show the finer boats at the anchorage and, whileI was on the landing making an exposure of the Morgansteinyacht, a tender put off with a message for me to comeaboard. Mr. Morganstein had seen me from the deck,where he was nursing his injured leg. He was lonesome,I suppose. There was no one else in sight, thoughas I stepped over the side, I heard a victrola playingdown below. ‘How are you?’ he said.‘Have a seat.’ Then he scowled downthe companionway and called: ’Elizabeth,stop that infernal machine, will you?’

“The music was turned off, and pretty soon MissMorganstein came up the stairs. She was stunning,in a white sailor suit with red fixings, eyes blackas midnight; piles of raven hair. But as soonas he had introduced us, and she had settled his pillowsto suit him—he was lying in one of thoseinvalid chairs—he sent her off to mix ajulep or something. Then he said he presumedwe were going to have a fine cut of the Aquilain the Sunday paper, if I was the reporter who madethat exposure at the time of the accident to his car.

I told him yes, I was Daniels, representing the Press,and had the good fortune to be in Snoqualmie Pass thatday. ’I was sure of it,’ he said.‘Watched you over there with these binoculars.’He put the glasses down on a table and opened a drawerand took out his fountain-pen and checkbook.‘That write-up was so good,’ he said, handingme the blank he had filled, ’I want to make youa little present. But you are the first Pressreporter I ever gave anything to, and I want thiskept quiet.’

“I thanked him, but when I looked at that checkI woke up. It was for a cool hundred dollars.I tried to make him take it back; I told him my paperwas paying me; besides, I couldn’t accept allthe credit; that you had fixed up the story and putthe names right, and the first cut was yours.‘Never mind,’ he said, ’I have somethingelse for your society miss to do. I am goingto have her describe my new country place, when it’sall in shape. Takes a woman to get hold of thescenery and color schemes.’ Then he insistedI had earned the extra money. Not one man in ahundred would have been quick enough to make thatexposure, and the picture was certainly fine of thewhole group. In fact, he wanted that film of thecar swinging into the embankment. He wanted tohave an enlargement made.”

“I see,” said Miss Atkins slowly, “Isee.” She paused, scooping the crest fromher pineapple ice, then added: “Now we aregetting to the core.”

“I told him it belonged to the paper, but Ithought I would be able to get it for him,”Jimmie resumed. “And he asked me to bringit down to Pier Number Three just before four thisafternoon. The Aquila was starting fora little cruise around Bainbridge Island to his countryplace, and if I wanted to work in something abouther equipment and speed, I might sail as far as theNavy Yard, where they would make a short stop.Then he mentioned that Hollis Tisdale might be aboard,and possibly I would be able to pick up a little informationon the coal question. These Government peoplewere ‘non-committal,’ he said, but therewas a snug corner behind the awnings aft, where inany case I could work up my Yacht Club copy.”

“So,” remarked the Society Editor slowly,“it’s a double core.”

CHAPTER XIV

ON BOARD THE AQUILA

Tisdale’s rooms were very warm that afternoon.It was another of those rare, breezeless days, anaftermath of August rather than the advent of Indiansummer, and the sun streamed in at the western windows.His injured hand, his whole feverish body, protestedagainst the heat. The peroxide which he had appliedto the hurt at Wenatchee had brought little relief,and that morning the increased pain and swelling hadforced him to consult a surgeon, who had probed thewound, cut a little, bandaged it, and announced curtlythat it looked like infection.

“But I can’t afford to nurse this hand”—Hollisrose from the couch where he had thrown himself whenhe came in from the doctor’s office—“Iought to be using it now.” He went overand drew the blinds, but the atmosphere seemed morestifling. He needed air, plenty of it, clean andfresh in God’s out-of-doors; it was being pennedin these close rooms that raised his temperature.He pulled the shades up again and took a turn acrossthe floor. Then he noticed the crumpled notewhich, aimed left-handedly, had missed the waste basketearlier, when he opened his mail, and he went overand picked it up. He stood smoothing it on hisdesk. A perfume, spicy yet suggestive of roses,pervaded the sheet, which was written in a round,firm, masculine hand, under the gilt monogram, M.F.His glance ran through the lines:

“I am writing for my brother, Frederic Morganstein,who is recuperating aboard his yacht, to ask you tojoin us on a little cruise around Bainbridge Islandthis afternoon at four o’clock. Ever sincehis interests have been identified with Alaska, hehas hoped to know you personally, and he wishes particularlyto meet you now, to thank you for your services inSnoqualmie Pass. In the general confusion afterthe accident I am afraid none of us remembered to.

“We expect to touch at the Navy Yard and againat Frederic’s new villa to see how the workis coming on, but the trip should not take longer thanfour hours, and we are dining informally on board.

“Do not trouble to answer. If the saltair is a strong enough lure this warm day, you willfind the Aquila at Pier Three.

“Very truly yours,

“MARCIA FEVERSHAM.

“Tuesday, September seventh.”

“That floating palace ought to stir up somebreeze.” Tisdale crumpled the invitationagain and dropped it deliberately in the waste basket.“And to-morrow I shall be shut up on my eastboundtrain.” He looked at his watch; there wasstill half an hour to spare before the time of sailing.“After all, why not?”

A little later, when he had hurried into white flannelsas expeditiously as possible with his disabled hand,the suggestion crept to his inner consciousness thathe might find Mrs. Weatherbee aboard the Aquila.“Well, why not?” he asked himself again.“Why not?” and picked up his hat.

So he came to Pier Number Three and, looking downthe gangway as he crossed, saw her standing in thelittle group awaiting him on the after deck.Morganstein spoke to him and introduced him to theladies. He did not avoid her look and, underhis appraising eyes, he saw the color begin to playin her face. Then her glance fell to his bandagedhand, and an inquiry rushed to her lips. Butshe checked the words in time and drew slowly aloofto a seat near the rail.

Tisdale took a place near the reclining chair of hishost. When she ventured to give him a swift side-glance,his mouth set austerely. But the space betweenthem became electrical. It was as though wirelessmessages passed continually between them.

“Look back. See how often I tried to tellyou! My courage failed. Believe in me.I am not the monster you thought.”

And always the one response: “The factsare all against you.”

Duwamish Head had dropped from sight; Magnolia Blufffell far astern, and the Aquila steamed outinto the long, broad reach of Puget Sound; but thoughthe tide had turned, there was still no wind.The late sun touched the glassy swells with the changingeffect of a prism. The prow of the craft shatteredthis mirror, and her wake stretched in a ragged andwidening crack. But under the awnings FredericMorganstein’s guests found it delightfully cool.Only Jimmie Daniels, huddled on a stool in the glare,outside the lowered curtain that cut him off from thebreeze created by the motion of the yacht, felt uncomfortablywarm.

The representative of the Press had arrivedon board in time to see Tisdale come down the pierand had discreetly availed himself of the secludedplace that the financier had previously put to hisdisposal. He had heard it told at the newspaperoffice that Tisdale, whose golden statements wereto furnish his little scoop, Hollis Tisdale of Alaskaand the Geographical Survey, who knew more about thecoal situation than any other man, was also the mostsilent, baffling sphinx on record when it came toan interview.

At the moment the Aquila came into the open,the Japanese boy placed a bowl of punch, with, pleasantclinking of ice, on the wicker table before Mrs. Feversham,who began to serve it. Like Elizabeth’s,the emblems on her nautical white costume were embroideredin scarlet, and a red silk handkerchief was knottedloosely on her full, boyish chest. She was notless striking, and indeed she believed this meetingon the deck of the yacht, where formalities were quicklyabridged, would appeal to the out-of-doors man andpave the way to a closer acquaintance in Washington.But Tisdale’s glance involuntarily moved beyondto the woman seated by the rail. Her head wasturned so that he caught the finely chiseled profile,the outward sweep of black lashes, the adorable curveof the oval chin to meet the throat. She toowore the conventional sailor suit, but without color,and this effect of purity, the inscrutable delicacyof her, seemed to set her apart from these dark, materialisticsisters as though she had strayed like a lost vestalinto the wrong atmosphere. His brows relaxed.For a moment the censor that had come to hold dominionin his heart was off guard. He felt the magnetismof her personality drawing him once more; he desiredto cross the deck to her, drop a word into those deepplaces he had discovered, and see her emotions stirand overflow. Then suddenly the enthusiasm, forwhich during that drive through the mountains he hadlearned to watch, broke in her face. “Look!”she exclaimed softly. “See Rainier!”

Every one responded, but Tisdale started from hischair, and went over and stood beside her. There,southward, through golden haze, with the dark andwooded bluffs of Vashon Island flanking the deep foregroundof opal sea, the dome lifted like a phantom peak.“It doesn’t seem to belong to our world,”she said, and her voice held its soft minor note, “buta vision of some higher, better country.”

She turned to give him her rare, grave look, and instantlyhis eyes telegraphed appreciation. Then he remembered.The swift revulsion came over him. He swung onhis heel to go back to his chair, and the unexpectedmovement brought him in conjunction with the punchtray. The boy righted it dexterously, and shetook the offered glass and settled again in her seat.But from his place across the deck, Tisdale noticeda drop had fallen, spreading, above the hem of herwhite skirt. The red stain held his austere gaze.It became a symbol of blood; on the garment of thevestal the defilement of sacrifice.

She was responsible for Weatherbee’s death.He must not forget that. And he saw through her.Now he saw. Had she not known at the beginninghe was an out-of-doors man? That he lived hisbest in the high spaces close to Nature’s heart?And so determined to win him in this way? Shehad meant to win him. Even yet, she could nottrust alone to his desire to see David’s projectthrough, but threw in the charm of her own personalityto swing the balance. Oh, she understood him.At the start she had read him, measured him, soundedhim through. That supreme moment, at the crisisof the storm, had she not lent herself to the situation,counting the price? At this thought, the heatsurged to his face. He wished in that instantto punish her, break her, but deeper than his angerwith her burned a fury against himself. Thathe should have allowed her to use him, make a foolof him. He who had blamed Weatherbee, censuredFoster, for less.

Then Marcia Feversham took advantage of the silenceand, at her first statement, Jimmie Daniels sat erect;he forgot his thirst, the discomfort of his position,and opened his notebook on his knee. “Iunderstand your work this season was in the Matanuskacoal region, Mr. Tisdale; you must be able to guessa little nearer than the rest of us as to the outcomeof the Naval tests. Is it the Copper River Northwesternor the Prince William Development Company that isto have the open door?”

Tisdale’s glance moved from the opal sea tothe lady’s face; the genial lines crinkled faintlyat the corners of his eyes. “I believe theBering and Matanuska coal will prove equally goodfor steaming purposes,” he replied.

Frederic Morganstein grasped the arms of his chairand moved a little, risking a twinge of pain, to looksquarely at Tisdale. “You mean the Governmentmay conserve both?” His voice was habituallythick and deliberate, as though the words had difficultyto escape his heavy lips. “That, sir, wouldlock the shackles on every resource in Alaska.Guess you’ve seen how construction and developmentare forced to a standstill, pending the coal decision.Guess you know our few finished miles of railroad,built at immense expense and burdened with an outrageoustax, are operating under imported coal. Placedan order with Japan in the spring for three thousandtons.”

“Think of it!” exclaimed Marcia.“Coal from the Orient, the lowest grade, whenwe should be exporting the best. Think of thehandicap, the injustice put upon those pioneer Alaskanswho fought tremendous obstacles to open the interior;who paved the way for civilization.”

Tisdale’s face clouded. “I am thinkingof those pioneers, madam, and I believe the Governmentis going to. Present laws can be easily amendedand enforced to fit nearly every situation until betterones are framed. The settler and prospector shouldhave privileges, but at the same time the Governmentmust put some restriction on speculation and monopoly.”

Behind the awning Jimmie’s pencil was racingdown the page, and Morganstein dropped his head backon the pillow; a purplish flush rose in his face.

“The trouble is,” Hollis went on evenly,“each senator has been so over-burdened withthe bills of his own State that Alaska has been side-tracked.But I know the President’s interest is waking;he wants to see the situation intelligently; in fact,he favors a Government-built railroad from the coastto the upper Yukon. And I believe as soon as aselection is made for naval use, some of those olddisputed coal claims— some, not all—willbe allowed. Or else—Congress must passa bill to lease Alaska coal lands.”

“Lease Alaska coal lands?” Frederic startedup again so recklessly he was forced to sink backwith a groan. “Do you mean we won’tbe allowed to mine any coal in Alaska, in that case,except by lease?” And he added, turning hischeek to the pillow, “Oh, damn!”

Tisdale seemed not to have heard the question.His glance moved slowly again over the opal sea andrested on the shining ramparts of the Olympics, offthe port bow. “Constance!” he exclaimedmellowly. “The Brothers! Eleanor!”Then he said whimsically: “Thank God theycan’t set steam-shovels to work there and levelthose peaks and fill the canyons. Do you know?”—hislook returned briefly and the genial lines deepened—“those mountains were my playground when I wasa boy. My last hunting trip, the year I finishedcollege, came to an untimely end up there in the gorgeof the Dosewallups. You see it? That shadedcontour cross-cutting the front of Constance.”

Elizabeth, who had opened her workbag, looked up withsudden interest. “Was there an accident?”she asked. “Something desperate and thrilling?”

“It seemed so to me,” he said.

Then Mrs. Weatherbee rose and came over to the portrail. “I see,” she said, and shadedher eyes with her hand. “You mean wherethat gold mist rises between that snow slope and theblue rim of that lower, nearer mountain. Andyou had camped in that gorge”—herhand dropped; she turned to him expectantly—“withfriends, on a hunting trip?”

He paused a moment then answered slowly: “Yes,madam, with one of them. Sandy, our old campcook, made a third in the party.”

CHAPTER XV

THE STORY OF THE TENAS PAPOOSE

Tisdale paused another moment, while his far-seeinggaze sifted the shadows of Constance, then began:“We had made camp that afternoon, at the pointwhere Rocky Brook tumbles over the last boulders tojoin the swift current of the Dosewallups. Iam something of an angler, and Sandy knew how to treata Dolly Varden to divide honors with a rainbow; sowhile the others were pitching the tents, it fellto me to push up stream with my rod and flies.The banks rose in sharp pitches under low boughs offir, hemlock, or cedar, but I managed to keep wellto the bed of the stream, working from boulder toboulder and stopping to make a cast wherever a rifflelooked promising. Finally, to avoid an unusuallydeep pool, I detoured around through the trees.It was very still in there; not even the cry of ajay or the drum of a woodpecker to break the silence,until suddenly I heard voices. Then, in a tangleof young alder, I picked up a trail and came soonon a group of squaws picking wild blackberries.They made a great picture with their beautifully woven,gently flaring, water-tight baskets, stained likepottery; their bright shawls wrapped scarfwise aroundtheir waists out of the way; heads bound in gay handkerchiefs.It was a long distance from any settlement, and theystood watching me curiously while I wedged myself betweentwin cedars, on over a big fallen fir, out of sight.

“A little later I found myself in a small pockethemmed by cliffs of nearly two hundred feet, overwhich the brook plunged in a fine cataract. Above,where it cut the precipice, a hanging spur of rocktook the shape of a tiger’s profile, and a depressioncolored by mineral deposit formed a big red eye; midwaythe stream struck shelving rock, breaking into a scoreof cascades that spread out fan-shape and poured intoa deep, green, stone-lined pool; stirring, splashing,rippling ceaselessly, but so limpid I could see thetrout. It was a place that held me. Whenat last I put away my flies and started down the bank,I knew dinner must be waiting for me, but I had astring of beauties to pacify Sandy. As I hurrieddown to the fallen tree, I heard the squaws callingto each other at a different point out of sight upthe ridge; then I found a step in the rough bole and,setting my hands on the top, vaulted over. Thenext instant I would have given anything, the bestyears of my life, to undo that leap. There, wheremy foot had struck, left with some filled baskets inthe lee of the log, lay a small papoose.”

Tisdale’s voice vibrated softly and stopped,while his glance moved from face to face. Heheld the rapt attention of every one, and in the pausethe water along the keel played a minor interlude.Behind the awning a different sound broke faintly.It was like the rustle of paper; a turned page.

“The baby was bound to the usual-shaped board,”Hollis went on, “with a woven pocket for thefeet and a broad carrying-strap to fit the head ofthe mother. I sat down and lifted the little fellowto my knees. I wore heavy shoes, studded withnails for mountain climbing, and the mark of my heelwas stamped, cruelly, on the small brown cheek; therim had crushed the temple.”

Tisdale halted again, and in the silence Elizabethsighed. Then, “I’ll bet you didn’twaste any time in that place,” exclaimed Morganstein.

“The eyes were closed,” resumed Tisdalegently. “I saw the blow had taken him inhis sleep, but the wantonness, the misery of it, turnedme cold. Then, you are right, I was seized witha panic to get away. I laid the papoose backin the place where I had found him and left my stringof fish, a poor tribute, with what money I had aboutme, and hurried down into the bed of the brook.

“The squaws were several days’ travelfrom the reservation, but I remembered we had passeda small encampment a few miles down the river andanother near the mouth of the Dosewallups, where acouple of Indians were fishing from canoes. Iknew they would patrol the stream as soon as the alarmwas given, and my only chance was to make a wide detour,avoiding my camp where they would first look for me,swim the river, and push through the forest, aroundthat steep, pyramid peak to the next canyon. Yousee it?—The Duckabush cuts through thereto tide water. I left no trail in crossing thestony bed of the brook, and took advantage of a lowbasalt bluff in climbing the farther bank. Itwas while I was working my way over the rock intocover of the trees that the pleasant calling on theridge behind me changed to the first terrible cry.The mother had found her dead baby.

“Twilight was on me when I stopped at last onthe river bank to take off my shoes. I rolledthem with my coat in a snug pack, which I secured witha length of fish-line to my shoulders before I plungedin. The current was swift; I lost headway, anda whirlpool caught me; I was swept under, came upgrazing a ragged rock, dipped again through a riffle,and when I finally gathered myself and won out tothe opposite shore, there was my camp in full viewbelow me. I was winded, bruised, shivering, andwhile I lay resting I watched Sandy. He stirredthe fire under his kettle, put a fresh lag on, thenwalked to the mouth of the brook and stood lookingup stream, wondering, no doubt, what was keeping me.Then a long cry came up the gorge. It was lostin the rush of the rapids and rose again in a wailingdirge. The young squaw was mourning for her papoose.It struck me colder than the waters of the Dosewallups.Sandy turned to listen. I knew I had only tocall, show myself, and the boys would be ready to fightfor me every step of the trail down to the settlement;but there was no need to drag them in; I hoped theywould waste no time in going out, and I found my pocketcompass, set a course, and pushed into the undergrowth.

“That night journey was long-drawn torture.The moon rose, but its light barely penetrated thefir boughs. My coat and shoes were gone, tornfrom me in the rapids, and I walked blindly into snaresof broken and pronged branches, trod tangles of blackberry,and more than once my foot was pierced by the barbsof a devil’s-club. Dawn found me stumblinginto a small clearing. I was dull with weariness,but I saw a cabin with smoke rising from the chimney,and the possibility of a breakfast heartened me.As I hurried to the door, it opened, and a woman witha milking pail came out. At sight of me she stopped,her face went white, and, dropping the bucket, shemoved backward into the room. The next momentshe brought a rifle from behind the door. ‘Ifyou come one step nearer,’ she cried, ‘I’llshoot.’”

Tisdale paused, and the humor broke gently in hisface. “I saw she was quite capable of it,”he went on, “and I stopped. It was the firsttime I had seemed formidable to a woman, and I raisedmy hand to my head—my hat was gone—tosmooth my ruffled hair; then my glance fell from myshirt sleeves, soiled and in tatters, down over mytorn trousers to my shoeless feet; my socks were inrags. ‘I am sorry,’ I began, but sherefused to listen. ‘Don’t you saya word,’ she warned and had the rifle to hershoulder, looking along the sight. ’If youdo, I’ll shoot, and I’m a pretty goodshot.’

“‘I haven’t a doubt of that,’I answered, taking the word, ’and even if youwere not, you could hardly miss at that range.’

“Her color came back, and she stopped sightingto look me over. ‘Now,’ she said,’you take that road down the Duckabush, and don’tyou stop short of a mile. Ain’t you ashamed,’she shrilled, as I moved ignominiously into the trail,’going ‘round scaring ladies to death?’

“But I did not go that mile. Out of sightof the cabin I found myself in one of those old burnedsections, overgrown with maple. The trees werevery big, and the gnarled, fantastic limbs and boleswere wrapped in thick bronze moss. It coveredthe huge, dead trunks and logs of the destroyed timber,carpeted the earth, and out of it grew a natural fernery.”He turned his face a little, involuntarily seekingMrs. Weatherbee. “I wish you could haveseen that place,” he said. “Imaginea great billowing sea of infinite shades of green,fronds waving everywhere, light, beautifully stencilledelk-fern, starting with a breadth of two feet and taperingto lengths of four or five; sword-fern shooting stifflyerect, and whole knolls mantled in maidenhair.”

“I know, I know!” she responded breathlessly.“It must have been beautiful, but it was terribleif you were pursued. I have seen such a place.Wherever one stepped, fronds bent or broke and madea plain trail. But of course you kept to thebeaten road.”

Tisdale shook his head. “That road outsidethe clearing was simply a narrow, little used path;and I was so dead tired I began to look for a placewhere I might take an hour’s rest. I chosea big cedar snag a few rods from the trail, the spreadingkind that is always hollow, and found the openingscreened in fern and just wide enough to let me in.Almost instantly I was asleep and—do youknow?”—the humor broke again gently—“it was late in the afternoon when I wakened.And I was only roused then by a light blow on my face.I started up. The thing that had struck me wasa moccasin, and its mate had dropped at my elbow.Then I saw a can of milk with a loaf of bread placedinside my door. But there was no one in sight,though I hurried to look, and I concluded that forsome unaccountable reason that inhospitable womanhad changed her opinion of me and wanted to make amends.I took a long draught of the milk—it wasthe best I ever tasted—then picked up oneof the moccasins. It was new and elaboratelybeaded, the kind a woman fancies for wall decorations,and she had probably bartered with some passing squawfor the pair. But the size looked encouraging,and with a little ripping and cutting, I managed towork it on. Pinned to the toe of the other, Ifound a note. It ran like this: ’TwoIndians are trailing you. I sent them down-stream,but they will come back. They told me about thatpoor little papoose.’

“I saw she must have followed me that morning,while searching for her cow, or perhaps to satisfyherself I had left the clearing, and so discoveredmy hiding-place. The broader track of her skirtsmust have covered mine through the fern.”

Tisdale paused. The Aquila had come underthe lee of Bainbridge Island. The Olympics wereout of sight, as the yacht, heeling to the first tiderip, began to turn into the Narrows, and the batteriesof Fort Ward commanded her bows; a beautiful woodedpoint broke the line of the opposite shore. Itrimmed a small cove. But Mrs. Weatherbee was notinterested; her attention remained fixed on Tisdale.Indeed he held the eyes of every one. Then MarciaFeversham relieved the tension. “And theIndians came back?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, that was inevitable; they had to comeback to pick up my trail. But you don’tknow what a different man that rest and the moccasinsmade of me. In five minutes I was on the roadand making my best time up the gorge, in the oppositedirection. The woman was standing in her dooras I passed the cabin; she put a warning finger toher lips and waved me on. In a little while theground began to fall in short pitches; sometimes itbroke in steps over granite spurs where the exposedroots of fir and hemlock twined; then I came to aplace where an immense boulder, big as a house, movingdown the mountain, had left a swath through the timber,and I heard the thunder of the Duckabush. I turnedinto this cut, intending to cross the river and work

down the canyon on the farther side, and as I wentI saw the torrent storming below me, a winding sheetof spray. The boulder had stopped on a levelbluff, but two sections, splitting from it, had droppedto the bank underneath and, tilting together in anapex, formed a small cavern through which washed arill. It made a considerable pool and, dividing,poured on either side of the uprooted trunk of a firthat bridged the stream. The log was very old;it sagged mid-channel, as though a break had started,and snagged limbs stretched a line of pitfalls.But a few yards below the river plunged in cataract,and above I found sheer cliffs curving in a doublehorseshoe. It was impossible to swim the racingcurrent, and I came back to the log. By that timeanother twilight was on me. The forest had beenvery still; I hadn’t noticed a bird all day,but while I stood weighing the chances of that crossing,I heard the harsh call of a kingfisher or jay.It seemed to come from the slope beyond the bluff,and instantly an answer rose faintly in the directionof the trail. I was leaning on one of the tiltedslabs, and I wormed myself around the base, to avoidleaving an impression in the wet sand, and dippedunder the trailing bough of a cedar, through the pool,and crawled up into the cavern. There wasn’troom to stand erect, and I waited crouching, overmoccasins in water. The cedar began to sway—Ihad used the upper boughs to ease myself in slidingdown the slab from the bluff—a fragmentof granite dropped, then an Indian came between meand the light.

“While he stopped to examine the sand at theedge of the pool, another followed. He ventureda short distance out on the log and came back, whilethe first set his rifle against the trunk and sankon his hands and knees to drink. The water, roiledprobably by my steps, was not to his taste, and herejected it with a disgusted ‘Hwah!’ Whenhe rose, he stood looking across the pool into mycavern. I held my breath, hugging the bluff behindme like a lizard. It was so dark I doubted ifeven his lynx eyes could discover me, but he liftedthe gun and for an instant I believed he meant tosend a shot into the hole. Then he seemed to thinkbetter of wasting his ammunition and led the way down-stream.They stopped on a level bank over the cataract, andin a little while I caught the odor of smoke and laterof cooking trout. My cramped position grew intolerable,and finally I crept out into the pool to reconnoitre.The light of their fire showed both figures stretchedon the ground. They had camped for the night.

“It was useless to try to go down-stream; beforedawn Indians would patrol the whole canyon; neithercould I double back to the Dosewallups where theyhad as surely left a watch; my only course was to riskthe log crossing at once, before the moon rose, andstrike southward to the Lilliwaup, where, at the mouthof the gorge, I knew the mail steamer made infrequentstops. I began to work up between the gnarledroots to the top of the trunk and pushed laboriouslywith infinite caution out over the channel. Ifelt every inch of that log, but once a dead branchsnapped short in my hand, and the noise rang sharpas a pistol shot. I waited, flattening myselfto the bole, but the thunder of the river must havedrowned the sound; the Indians did not stir. Soat last I came to the danger point. Groping forthe break, I found it started underneath, reachingwell around. Caused probably by some batteringbulk in the spring floods, and widening slowly eversince, it needed only a slight shock to bring it toa finish. I grasped a stout snag and tried toswing myself over the place, but there came a splittingreport; and there was just time to drop astride abovethat stub of limb, when the log parted below it, andI was in the river. I managed to keep my holdand my head out of water, though the current did itsbest to suck me under. Then I saw that whilethe main portion of the tree had been swept away, thetop to which I clung remained fixed to the bank, wedgedno doubt between trunks or boulders. As I beganto draw myself up out of the wash, a resinous boughthrown on the fire warned me the Indians were roused,and I flattened again like a chameleon on the slipperyincline. They came as far as the rill and stoodlooking across, then went down-stream, no doubt tosee whether the trunk had stranded on the rifflesbelow the cataract. But they were back beforeI could finish the log, and the rising moon illuminatedthe gorge. I was forced to swing to the shadyside of the snag. The time dragged endlessly;a wind piping down the watercourse cut like a hundredwhips through my wet clothes; and I think in the endI only kept my hold because my fingers were too stiffto let go. But at last the Indians stretched themselvesonce more on the ground; their fire burned low, andI wormed myself up within reach of a friendly younghemlock, grasped a bough, and gained shelving rock.The next moment I relaxed, all but done for, on a drybed of needles.”

Tisdale paused, looking again from face to face, whilethe humor gleamed in his own. “I am makinga long story of it,” he said modestly. “Youmust be tired!”

“Tired!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “It’sthe very best story I ever heard. Please go on.”

“Of course you escaped,” supplementedMarcia Feversham, “but we want to know how.And what was your chum doing all the time? Andwasn’t there another woman?”

Frederic Morganstein rumbled a short laugh. “Maybeyou made the Lilliwaup, but I’ll bet ten toone you missed your steamer.”

Tisdale’s eyes rested involuntarily again onMrs. Weatherbee. She did not say anything, butshe met the look with her direct gaze; her short upperlip parted, and the color burned softly in her cheek.“I made the Lilliwaup,” he went on, “abouttwo miles from the mouth, between the upper and lowerfalls. The river breaks in cascades there, hundredsof them as far as one can see, divided by tremendousboulders.”

“We know the place,” said Elizabeth quickly.“Our first cruise on the Aquila was tothe Lilliwaup. We climbed to the upper falls andspent hours along the cascades. Those boulders,hundreds of them, rose through the spray, all coveredwith little trees and ferns. There never wasanything like it, but we called it The Fairy Isles.”

Tisdale nodded. “It was near the end ofthat reach I found myself. The channels gatherbelow, you remember, and pour down a steep declivityunder a natural causeway. But the charm and grandeurwere lost on me that day. I wanted to reach theold trail from the falls on the opposite shore, andI knew that stone bridge fell short a span, so I beganto work my way from boulder to boulder out to themain stream. It was a wide chasm to leap, withan upward spring to a tilted table of basalt, and Ioverbalanced, slipped down, and, coasting across thesurface, recovered enough on the edge to ease myselfoff to a nearly submerged ledge. There I stopped.”He paused an instant, and his eyes sought Marcia Feversham’s;the amusem*nt played lightly on his flexible lips.“I had stumbled on another woman. She wasseated on a lower boulder, sketching the stone bridge.I was behind her, but I saw a pretty hand and forearm,some nice brown hair tucked under a big straw hat,and a trim and young figure in a well-made gown ofblue linen. Then she said pleasantly, withoutturning her head: ’Well, John, what luck?’

“I drew back into a shallow niche of the rock.I had not forgotten the first impression I made onthe woman up the Duckabush and had no desire to ‘scareladies.’ But my steamer was almost due,and I hoped John would come soon. Getting noreply from him, she rose and glanced around. Thenshe looked at her watch, put her hand to her mouth,and sent a long call up the gorge. ‘Joh-n.Joh-n, hello!’ She had a carrying, singer’svoice, but it brought no answer, so after a momentshe gathered up her things and started towards thebank. I watched her disappear among the trees;then, my fear of missing the steamer growing strongerthan the dread of terrifying her, I followed.The trail drops precipitously around the lower falls,you remember, and I struck the level where the riverbends at the foot of the cataract, with considerablenoise. I found myself in a sort of open-air parlorflanked by two tents; rustic seats under a canopy ofmaple boughs, hammocks, a percolator bubbling on asheet-iron contrivance over the camp-fire coals, and,looking at me across a table, the girl. ’Ibeg your pardon,’ I hurried to say. ‘Don’tbe afraid of me.’

“‘Afraid?’ she repeated. ‘Afraid—ofyou?’ And the way she said it, with a half scornful,half humorous surprise, the sight of her standing thereso self-reliant, buoyant, the type of that civilizationI had tried so hard to reach, started a reaction ofmy overstrained nerves. Still, I think I mighthave held myself together had I not at that momentcaught the voice of that unhappy squaw. It strucka chill to my bones, and I sank down on the nearestseat and dropped my face in my hands, completely unmanned.

“I knew she came around the table and stoodlooking me over, but when I finally managed to liftmy head, she had gone back to the percolator to bringme a cup of coffee. It had a pleasant aroma, andthe cream with which she cooled it gave it a nicecolor. You don’t know how that first draughtsteadied me. ‘I am sorry, madam,’I said, ’but I have had a hard experience inthese woods, and I expected to catch the mail boatfor Seattle; but that singing down-stream means Iam cut off.’

“She started a little and looked me over againwith new interest. ’The squaw,’ shesaid, ’is mourning for her papoose. It wasa terrible accident. A young hunter up the Dosewallups,where the Indians were berrying, killed the baby injumping a log.’

“‘Yes, madam,’ I answered, and roseand put the cup down, ’I am the man. Itis harder breaking trail to the Lilliwaup than comingby canoe, and the Indians have beaten me. I mustdouble back now to the Duckabush. By that time,they will have given up the watch.’

“‘Wait,’ she said, ‘let methink.’ But it did not take her long.A turn the length of the table, and her face brightened.’Why, it’s the easiest thing in the world,’she said. ‘I must row you to the steamer.’Then when I hesitated to let her run the risk, sheexplained that her party had moved their camp fromthe mouth of the Dosewallups after these Indians arrivedthere; they knew her; they had seen her rowing about,and she always carried a good many traps; an easel,sun umbrella, cushions, a steamer rug. I hadonly to lie down in the bottom of the boat, and shewould cover me. And she drew back the flap ofthe nearest tent and told me to change my clothesfor a brown suit she laid out, and canvas shoes.‘Come,’ she urged, ’there’stime enough but none to waste; and any minute theIndians may surprise you.’

“She was waiting with the rug and pillows anda pair of oars when I came out, and helped me carrythem to the boat which was beached a short distancebelow her camp. When it was launched, and I wasstowed under the baggage, with an ample breathinghole through which I could watch the rower, she pushedoff and fell into a long, even stroke. PresentlyI noticed she had nice eyes, brown and very deep,and I thought her face was beautiful. It hadthe expressiveness, the swift intelligence that goeswith a strong personality, and through all her determination,I felt a running note of caution. I knew she

saw clearly while she braved the extremity. Aftera while her breast began to rise and fall with theexercise, her cheeks flushed, and I saw she had metthe flood tide. All this time the voice of thesquaw grew steadily nearer. I imagined her, asI had seen others before, kneeling on the bank, rockingherself, beating her breast. Then it came overme that we were forced to hug the shore to avoid oneof the reedy shallows that choked the estuary and mustpass very close to her. The next moment therewas a lull, and the girl looked across her shoulderand called ‘Clahowya!’ At the same timeshe rested on her oars long enough to take off herhat and toss it with careless directness on my breathinghole. The squaw’s answer came from aboveme, and she repeated and intoned the word so thatit seemed part of her dirge. ‘Clahowya!Clahowya! Clahowya! Wake tenas papoose.Halo! Halo!’ The despair of it cut me worsethan lashes. Then I heard other voices; a dogbarked, and I understood we were skirting the encampment.

“After that the noise grew fainter, and in alittle while the girl uncovered my face. Thechannel had widened; the tang of salt came on thewind; and when I ventured to raise my head a little,I saw the point at the mouth of the river loomingpurple-black. Then, as we began to round it,we came suddenly on a canoe, drifting broadside, witha single salmon hunter crouching in it, ready withhis spear. It flashed over me that he was oneof the two Indians who had tracked me to the Duckabush;the taller one who had tried to drink at the rill;then he made his throw and at the same instant thegirl’s hat fell again on my face. I heardher call her pleasant ‘Clahowya!’ andshe added, rowing on evenly: ’Hyas delatesalmon.’ The next moment his answer rangastern: ’Clahowya! Clahowya! Hyasdelate salmon.’

“At last I felt the swell of the open, and sheleaned to uncover my face once more. ‘Thesteamer is in sight,’ she said, and I raisedmy head again and saw the boat, a small moving blotwith a trailer of smoke, far up the sapphire sea.Then I turned on my elbow and looked back. Thecanoe and the encampment were hidden by the point;we were drifting off the wharf of the small town-site,almost abandoned, where the steamer made her stop.There was nothing left to do but express my gratitude,which I did clumsily enough.

“‘You mustn’t make so much of it,’she said; ’the first thing a reservation Indianis taught is to forget the old law, a life for a life.’

“‘I know that,’ I answered, ’stillI couldn’t have faced the best white man thatfirst hour, and off there in the mountains, away fromreservation influences, my chances looked small.I wish I could be as sure the men who were with meare safe.’

“She gave me a long, calculating look.‘They will be—soon,’ she said.’My brother Robert should be on the steamerwith the superintendent and reservation guard.’And she dipped her oars again, pointing the boat alittle more towards the landing, and watched the steamerwhile I sifted her meaning.

“‘So,’ I said at last. ’Sothey are there at that camp. You knew it andbrought me by.’

“‘You couldn’t have helped themany,’ she said, ’and you can go back, ifyou wish, with the guard.’ Then she toldme how she had visited the camp with her brother Robertand had seen them bound with stout strips of elk-hide.They had explained the accident and how one of them,to give me time at the start, had put himself in myplace.”

Tisdale halted a moment; a wave of emotion crossedhis face. His look rested on Mrs. Weatherbee,and his eyes drew and held hers. She leaned forwarda little; her lips parted over a hushed breath.It was as though she braved while she feared his nextwords. “That possibility hadn’t occurredto me,” he went on, “yet I should haveforeseen it, knowing the man as I did. We werebuilt on the same lines, practically the same size,and we had outfitted together for the trip. Hewore high, brown shoes spiked for mountain climbing,exactly like mine; he even matched the marks of thatheel. But Sandy wouldn’t stand for it.He declared there was a third man who had gone upRocky Brook and had not come back. One of thesquaws who had seen me agreed with him, but they werebound and taken to the encampment. The next morningan Indian found my coat and shoes lodged on a gravelbar and picked up my trail. The camp moved thenby canoe around to the mouth of the Duckabush. takingthe prisoners with them, and waited for my trailersto come down. They had discovered me on the logcrossing when it fell, and believed I was drowned.”

There was another pause. Mrs. Weatherbee sighedand leaned back in her chair; then Mrs. Fevershamsaid: “And they refused to let your substitutego?”

Tisdale nodded. “He was brought with Sandyalong to the Lilliwaup. The Indians were travelinghome, and no doubt the reservation influence had restrainedthem; still, they were staying a second night on theLilliwaup, and when Robert spoke to them they weresullen and ugly. That was why he had hurriedaway to bring the superintendent down. He hadstarted in his Peterboro but expected to find a manon the way who would take him on in his motor-boat.Once during the night John had drifted close to thecamp to listen, but things were quiet, and they hadbridged the morning with a little fishing and sketchingup-stream.

“‘Suppose,’ I said at last, ’supposeyou had been afraid of me. I should be doublingback to the Duckabush now. As it is, I wouldn’tgive much for their opinion of me.’

“‘I wish you could have heard that manSandy,’ she said, and—did I tellyou she had a very nice smile? ‘He calledyou true gold.’ And while she went on torepeat the rest he had told her, it struck me pleasantlyI was listening to my own obituary. But the steamerwas drawing close. She whistled the landing,and the girl dipped her oars again, pulling her long,even strokes. I threw off the rug and sat erect,

ready to ease the boat off as we came alongside.And there on the lower deck watching us stood a youngfellow whom, from his resemblance to her, I knew asbrother Robert, with the superintendent from the reservation,backed by the whole patrol. Then my old friendDoctor Wise, the new coroner at Hoodsport, came edgingthrough the crowd to take my hand. ‘Well,well, Tisdale, old man,’ he said, ‘thisis good. Do you know they had you drowned—orworse?’”

Tisdale settled back in his chair and, turning hisface, looked off the port bow. The Narrows haddropped behind, and for a moment the deck of the Aquilaslanted to the tide rip off Port Orchard; then sherighted and raced lightly across the broad channel.Ahead, off Bremerton Navy Yard, some anchored cruisersrose in black silhouette against a brilliant sea.

“And,” said Marcia Feversham, “ofcourse you went to the camp in a body and releasedthe prisoners.”

“Yes, we used the mail steamer’s boats,and she waited for us until the inquest was over,then brought us on to Seattle. The motor-boattook the doctor and superintendent home.”

“And the girl,” said Elizabeth after amoment, “did you never see her again?”

“Oh, yes.” The genial lines deepened,and Hollis rose from his chair. “Often.I always look them up when I am in Seattle.”

“But who was John?”

“John? Why, he was her husband.”

The Olympics had reappeared; the sun dropped behinda cloud over a high crest; shafts of light silveredthe gorges; the peaks caught an amethyst glow.Tisdale, tracing once more that far canyon across thefront of Constance, walked slowly forward into thebows.

The yacht touched the Bremerton dock to take on thelieutenant who was expected aboard, and at the sametime Jimmie Daniels swung lightly over the side aft.The Seattle steamer whistled from her slip on the fartherside of the wharf, and he hurried to the gang-plank.There he sent a glance behind and saw Tisdale stillstanding with his back squared to the landing, lookingoff over the harbor. And the Press representativesmiled. He had gathered little information inregard to the coal question, but in that notebook,buttoned snugly away in his coat, he had set downthe papoose story, word for word.

CHAPTER XVI

THE ALTERNATIVE

Tisdale did not follow the lieutenant aft. Whenthe Aquila turned into Port Orchard, he stillremained looking off her bows. The sun had set,a soft breeze was in his face, and the Sound was nolonger a mirror; it fluted, broke in racy waves; thecutwater struck from them an intricate melody.Northward a few thin streamers of cloud warmed likepainted flames, and their reflection changed the seato running fire. Then he was conscious that someone approached behind him; she stopped at his elbowto watch the brilliant scene. And instantly thespirit of combat in him stirred; his muscles tightenedlike those of a man on guard.

After a moment she commenced to sing very softly,in unison with the music of the waves along the keel,

“How dear to me the hour when daylight dies.”

Even subdued, her voice was beautiful. It begansurely, insistently, to undermine all that stout breastworkhe had reared against her these twenty-four hours.But he thrust his hands in his pockets and turned toher with that upward look of probing, upbraiding eyes.

The song died. A flush rose over her face, butshe met the look bravely. “I came to explain,”she said. “I thought at the beginning, whenwe started on that drive through the mountains, youknew my identity. Afterwards I tried repeatedlyto tell you, but when I saw how bitterly you—hated—me,my courage failed.”

Her lip trembled over a sighing breath, and she looked,away up the brilliant sea. Tisdale could notdoubt her. His mind raced back to incident onincident of that journey; in flashes it was all madeclear to him. Even during that supreme hour ofthe electrical storm had she not tried to undeceivehim? He forgave her her transgressions againsthim; he forgave her so completely that, at the recollectionof the one moment in the basin, his pulses sang.Then, inside his pockets, his hands clenched, andhe scourged himself for the lapse.

“I was in desperate need,” she went onquickly. “There was a debt—adebt of honor—I wished to pay. AndMr. Foster told me you were interested in that desertland; that you were going to look it over. Hecaught me by long distance telephone the night hesailed for Alaska, to let me know. Oh, it allsounds sordid, but if you have ever come to the raggededge of things—”

She stopped, with a little outward, deprecating movementof her hands, and turned again to meet Tisdale’slook. But he was still silent. “I believedwhen you knew me,” she went on, “you wouldsee I am not the kind of woman you imagined; I evenhoped, for David’s sake, you would forgive me.But I did not know there was such friendship as yoursin the world. I thought only mothers loved so,—thegreat ones, the Hagars, the Marys. It is morethan that; it is the best and deepest of every kindof love in one. I can’t fathom it—unless—mensometimes are born with twin souls.”

It was not the influence of her personality now; itwas not any magnetism. Something far down inthe depths of him responded to that something in her.It was as though he felt the white soul of her risingtranscendent over her body. It spoke in her pose,her eloquent face, and it filled the brief silencewith an insistent, almost vibrant appeal.

“They are,” he answered, and the emotionin his own face played softly through his voice, “Iam sure that they are. Weatherbee had other friends,plenty of them, scattered from the Yukon territoryto Nome; men who would have been glad to go out oftheir way to serve him, if they had known; but henever asked anything of them; he saved the right tocall on me. Neither of us ever came as near that‘ragged edge of things’ as he did, toppledon it as he did, for so long. There never wasa braver fight, against greater odds, single-handed,yet I failed him.” He paused while his eyesagain sought that high gorge of the Olympic Mountains,then added: “The most I can do now is tosee that his work is carried on.”

“You mean,” she said not quite steadily,“you are going to buy that land?”

“I mean”—he frowned a little—“Iam going to renew my offer to finance the projectfor you. You owe it to David Weatherbee even morethan I do. Go back to that pocket; set his desertblossoming. It’s your only salvation.”

She groped for the bulwark behind her and moved backto its support. “I could not. I couldnot. I should go mad in that terrible place.”

“Listen, madam.” He said this verygently, but his voice carried its vibrant undernoteas though down beneath the surface a waiting reserveforce stirred. “I did not tell all aboutthat orchard of spruce twigs. It was plantedalong a bench, the miniature of the one we climbedin the Wenatchee Mountains, that was crossed withtiny, frozen, irrigating canals leading from a basin;and midway stood a house. You must have knownthat trick he had of carving small things with hispocket-knife. Then imagine that delicately modeledhouse of snow. It was the nucleus of the whole,and before the door, fine as a cameo and holding abundle in her arms, was set the image of a woman.”

There was a silent moment. She waited, leaninga little forward, watching Tisdale’s face, whilea sort of incredulous surprise rose through the despairin her eyes. “There were women at Fairbanksand Seward after the first year,” he went on.“Bright, refined women who would have countedit a privilege to share things, his hardest luck,with David Weatherbee. But the best of them inhis eyes was nothing more than a shadow. Therewas just one woman in the world for him. Thatimage stood for you. The whole project revolvedaround you. It would be incomplete now withoutyou.”

She shrank closer against the bulwark, glancing abouther with the swift look of a creature trapped, thenfor a moment dropped her face in her hands. Whenshe tried to say something, the words would not come.Her lips, her whole face quivered, but she could onlyshake her head in protest again and again.

Tisdale waited, watching her with his upward lookfrom under contracted brows. “What elsecan you do?” he asked at last. “Yourtract is too small to be handled by a syndicate, andnow that the levels of the Columbia desert are tobe brought under a big irrigation project, which meansa nominal expense to the grower, your high pocket,unimproved, will hardly attract the single buyer.Will you, then, plat it in five-acre tracts for theSeattle market and invite the—interest ofyour friends?”

She drew erect; the danger signals flamed brieflyin her eyes. “My friends can be dis-interested,Mr. Tisdale. It has only been through them, fora long time, I have been able to keep my hold.”

“There’s where you made your mistake atthe start; in gaining that hold. When you conformedto their standards, your own were overthrown.”

“That is not true.” She did not raiseher voice any; it dropped rather to a minor note?but a tremor ran over her body, and her face for aninstant betrayed how deep the shaft had struck.“And, always, when I have accepted a favor,I have given full measure in exchange. But thereis an alternative you seem to have overlooked.”

“I understand,” he said slowly, and hiscolor rose. “You may marry again.”Then he asked, without protest: “Is it Foster?”

On occasion, during that long drive through the mountains,he had felt the varying height and thickness of aninvisible barrier, but never, until that moment, itschill. Then Marcia Feversham called her, and sheturned to go down the deck. “I’mcoming!” she answered and stopped to look back.“You need not trouble about Mr. Foster,”she said. “He—is safe.”

CHAPTER XVII

“ALL THESE THINGS WILL I GIVE THEE”

Frederic had suggested a rubber at auction bridge.

Elizabeth fixed another pillow under his shouldersand moved the card table to his satisfaction, thentook a chair near the players and unfolded her crochet,while Tisdale, whose injured hand excluded him fromthe game, seated himself beside her. He askedwhimsically if she was manufacturing a cloud likethe one in the west where the sun had set; but shelacked her sister’s ready repartee, and, arrestingher needle long enough to glance at him and back tothe woolly, peach-pink pile in her lap, answered seriously:“It’s going to be a hug-me-tight.”

The lieutenant laughed. “Sounds interesting,does it not?” he said, shuffling the cards.“But calm yourself, sir; a hug-me-tight is merelya kind of sweater built on the lines of a vest.”

He dealt, and Mrs. Feversham bid a lily. Fromhis position Tisdale was able to watch Mrs. Weatherbee’sface and her cards. She held herself erect ina subdued excitement as the game progressed; the pinkflush deepened and went and came in her cheek; theblue lights danced in her eyes. Repeatedly sheflashed intelligence to her partner across the board.And the lieutenant began to wait in critical momentsfor the glance. They won the first hand.Then it became apparent that he and Morganstein werebetting on the side, and Marcia remonstrated.“It isn’t that we are scrupulous alone,”she said, “but we lose inspiration playing secondfiddle.”

“Come in then,” suggested Frederic andexplained to the lieutenant: “She can putup a hundred dollars and lose ’em like a soldier.”

“The money stayed in the family,” shesaid quickly. “Beatriz, it is your bid.”

Mrs. Weatherbee was calculating the possibilitiesof her hand. Her suit was diamonds; seven insequence from the jack. She held also the threehighest in clubs and the other black king. Shewas weak in hearts. “I bid two diamonds,”she said slowly, “and, Marcia, it’s myruby against your check for three hundred dollars.”

There was a flutter of surprise. “No,”remonstrated Elizabeth sharply. “No, Marciacan buy the ring for what it is worth.”

“Then I should lose the chance to keep it.Three hundred will be enough to lose.”And she added, less confidently: “But ifyou should win, Marcia, it is understood you willnot let the ring go out of your hands.”

“I bear witness,” cried the lieutenantgallantly, “and we are proud to play secondwhen a Studevaris leads.”

But Morganstein stared at her in open admiration.“You thoroughbred!” he said.

“It shall stay in the family,” confirmedMarcia.

Then Frederic bid two lilies, the lieutenant passedand Mrs. Feversham raised to three hearts. Shewavered, and Tisdale saw the cards tremble in herhand. “Four diamonds,” she said atlast. The men passed, and Marcia doubled.Then Morganstein led a lily, and the lieutenant spreadhis hand on the table. There were six clubs;in diamonds a single trey.

But Mrs. Weatherbee was radiant. She moved alittle and glanced back at Elizabeth, inviting herto look at her hand. She might as well have said:“You see, I have only to lead out trumps andestablish clubs.”

Marcia played a diamond on her partner’s secondlead of spades, and led the ace of hearts, followingwith the king; the fourth round Frederic trumped overMrs. Weatherbee and led another lily. Mrs. Fevershamused her second diamond and, returning with a heart,saw her partner trump again over Mrs. Weatherbee.It was miserable. They gathered in the book beforethe lead fell to her. The next deal the cardsdeserted her, and after that the lieutenant blundered.But even though the ruby was inevitably lost, shefinished the rubber pluckily; the flush deepened inher cheek; the blue fires flamed in her eyes.“You thoroughbred!” Morganstein repeatedthickly. “You thoroughbred!”

To Tisdale it was unendurable. He rose and crossedto the farther side of the desk. The Aquila,rounding the northern end of Bainbridge Island, hadcome into Agate Pass; the tide ran swift in rips andeddies between close wooded shores, but these thingsno longer caught his attention. The scene hesaw was the one he had put behind him, and in the calciumlight of his mind, one figure stood out clearly fromthe rest. Had he not known this woman was a spendthrift?Had he not suspected she inherited this vice fromher father, that old gambler of the stock exchange.Was it not for this reason he had determined to holdthat last half interest in the Aurora mine? Still,still, she had not shown the skill of long practice;she had not played with ordinary caution. Andhad not Elizabeth remonstrated, as though her losswas inevitable? Every one had been undeniablysurprised. Why, then, had she done this?She had told him she was in “desperate need.”Could this have been the alternative to which shehad referred?

The Aquila’s whistle blew, and she camearound, close under a bluff, into a small cove, onthe rim of which rose the new villa. The groupbehind Tisdale began to push back chairs. He turned.The game was over, and Mrs. Feversham stood movingher hand slowly to catch the changing lights of thering on her finger. Then she looked at the loser.“It seems like robbery,” she exclaimed,“to take this old family talisman from you,Beatriz. I shall make out a check to ease my conscience.”

“Oh, no.” She lifted her head bravelylike his Alaska flower in the bitter wind. “Ishall not accept it. My grandfather believed inthe ruby devoutly,” she went on evenly.“It was his birthstone. And since it isyours too, Marcia, it should bring you better fortunethan it has brought me. But see! The villaroof is finished and stained moss-green as it shouldbe, against that background of firs. And isn’tthe big veranda delightful, with those Venetian blinds?”

The yacht nosed alongside the little stone quay, andpreceded by the host, who was carried ashore in hischair, not without difficulty, by relays of his crew,the party made the landing.

Tisdale’s first impression when he stepped overthe threshold of the villa was of magnitude.A great fireplace built of granite blocks faced thehospitable entrance, and the interior lifted to thebeamed roof, with a gallery midway, on which openedthe upper rooms. The stairs rose easily in twolandings, and the curving balustrade formed a recessin which was constructed a stage. Near this apipe organ was being installed. It was all luxurious,created for entertainment and pleasure, but it lackedthe ostentatious element for which he was prepared.

It had been understood that the visit was made atthis time to allow Mrs. Feversham an opportunity togo through the house. She was to decide on certainfurnishings which she was to purchase in New York,but it was evident to Tisdale that the items she listedfollowed the suggestions of the woman who stood besideher, weighing with subdued enthusiasm the possibilitiesof the room. “Imagine a splendid polar-bearrug here,” she said, “with a yellowishlynx at the foot of the stairs, and one of those fineKodiak skins in front of the hearth. A couch therein the chimney corner, with a Navajo blanket and pillowswould be color enough.”

Morganstein, watching her from his invalid chair,grasped the idea with satisfaction. “Cutout those Wilton carpets, Marcia,” he said.“I’ll write that Alaska hunter, Thompson,who heads the big-game parties, to send me half adozen bears. They mount ’em all right inSeattle. Now see what we are going to need inthat east suite up-stairs.”

They went trooping up the staircase, but Hollis didnot hurry to follow. His glance moved to theheavy, recumbent figure of his host. He was lookingup across the banisters at Mrs. Weatherbee as she ascended,and something in his sensuous face, the steady gleamof his round black eyes, started in Tisdale’smind a sudden suspicion. She stopped to look downfrom the gallery railing and smiled with a gay littlesalute. Then Elizabeth called, and she disappearedthrough an open door.

“I’d give fifty dollars to see her facewhen she gets to that east room,” Morgansteinsaid abruptly. “But go up, Mr. Tisdale;go up. Needn’t bother to stay with me.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE OPTION

Vivian count stood on the first hill. The brickwalls of the business center filled the levels below,and Mrs. Weatherbee’s windows, like Tisdale’s,commanded the inner harbor rimmed by Duwamish Head,with a broader sweep of the Sound beyond framed inwooded islands and the snow-peaks of the Olympic Peninsula.Southeastward, from her alcove, lifted the matchless,solitary crest of Rainier. It was the morningfollowing the cruise on the Aquila, and Mrs.Weatherbee was taking a light breakfast in her room.The small table, placed near an open casem*nt, allowedher to enjoy both views. She inhaled the saltbreeze with the gentle pleasure of a woman whose sensehas been trained, through generations, to fine anddelicate perfumes; her eyes caught the sapphire sparkleof the sea, and her face had the freshness and warmthof a very young girl’s. The elbow lengthof the sleeve exposed a forearm beautifully molded,with the velvety firmness of a child’s; andthe wistaria shade of her empire gown intensifiedthe blue tones in the dark masses of her hair.In short, she stood for all that is refined, bright,charming in womanhood; and not for any single type,but a blending of the best in several; the “typicalAmerican beauty” that Miles Feversham had namedher.

Her glance moved slowly among the shipping. Thegreat steamship leaving the Great Northern docks wasthe splendid liner Minnesota, sailing for Japan;the outbound freighter, laden to the gunwales and carryinga deckload of lumber, was destined for Prince WilliamSound. She represented Morganstein interests.And when her eyes moved farther, in the directionof the Yacht Club, there again was the Aquila,the largest speck in the moored fleet. A shadowcrossed her face. She rose and, turning from thewindows, stood taking an inventory that began withthe piano, a Steinway mellowed by age, and ended ata quaint desk placed against the opposite wall.It was very old; it had been brought in her great-grandfather’stime from Spain, and the carving, Moorish in design,had often roused the enthusiastic comment of her friends.Appraising it, her brows ruffled a little; the shortupper lip met the lower in a line of resolve.She went to her telephone and found in the directorythe number of a dealer in curios. But as shereached for the receiver, she was interrupted by aknock and, closing the book hastily, put it down toopen the door.

A bell-boy stood holding a rare scarlet azalea infull flower. In its jardiniere of Satsuma wareit was all his arms could compass, and a second boyfollowed with the costly Japanese stand that accompaniedit. There was no need to read the name on thecard tied conspicuously among the stiff leaves.The gift was from Frederic Morganstein. It hadarrived, doubtless, on an Oriental steamer that haddocked the previous evening while the Aquilamade her landing. Mrs. Weatherbee had the plantplaced where the sunshine reached it through the windowof the alcove, and it made a gay showing against thesubdued gray of the walls. Involuntarily her glancemoved from it to the harbor, seeking the Minnesota,now under full headway off Magnolia Bluff. Itwas as though, in that moment, her imagination out-traveledthe powerful liner, and she saw before her that alluringcountry set on the farther rim of the Pacific.

The steamship passed from sight; she turned from thewindow. The boy had taken away the breakfasttray and had left a box on the table. It wasmodest, violet-colored, with Hollywood Gardens stampedon the cover, but she hurried with an incredulousexpectancy to open it. For an instant the perfumeseemed to envelop her, then she lifted the green waxedpaper, and a soft radiance shone in her face.It was only a corsage bouquet, but the violets, arrangedwith a few fronds of maidenhair, were delightfullyfresh. She took them out carefully. For amoment she held them to her cheek. But she didnot fasten them on her gown; instead she filled acut-glass bowl with water and set them at the opencasem*nt in the shade. A cloud of city smoke,driving low, obscured the Aquila; the freighterbound for Prince William Sound rounded Magnolia Bluff,but clearly she had forgotten these interests; shestood looking the other way, through the southeastwindow, where Rainier rose in solitary splendor.A subdued exhilaration possessed her. Did shenot in imagination travel back over the Cascades tothat road to Wenatchee, where, rising to the divide,they had come unexpectedly on that far view of theone mountain? Then her glance fell again to theviolets, and she lifted the bowl, leaning her cheek,her forehead, to feel the touch of the cool petalsand inhale their fragrance.

She had not looked for Tisdale’s card, but presently,in disposing of the florist’s box, she foundit tucked in the folds of waxed paper. He hadwritten across it, not very legibly, with his lefthand,

“I want to beg your pardon for that mistakeI made. I know you never will put any man inDavid Weatherbee’s place. You are goingto think too much of him. When you are readyto make his project your life work, let me know.”

She was a long time reading the note, going back tothe beginning more than once to reconsider his meaning.And her exhilaration died; the weariness that madeher suddenly older settled over her face. At lastshe tore the card slowly in pieces and dropped itin the box.

Her telephone rang, and she went over and took downthe receiver. “Mrs. Weatherbee,”she said, and after a moment. “Yes.Please send him up.”

The bell-boy had left the door ajar, and she heardthe elevator when it stopped at her floor; a quick,nervous step sounded along the corridor, the doorswung wider to some draught, and a short, wiry man,with a weather-beaten face, paused on the threshold.“I am Lucky Banks,” he said simply, takingoff his hat. “Mr. Tisdale asked me to seeyou got this bundle.”

Involuntarily her glance rested on the hand that heldthe package in the curve of his arm, and she suppresseda shiver; the dread that the young and physicallyperfect always betray at the sight of deformity sprangto her eyes. “Thank you for troubling,”she said, then, having taken the bundle, she waitedto close the door.

But Banks was in no hurry. “It wasn’tany trouble, my, no,” he replied. “Iwas glad of the chance. It’s a little bunchof stuff that was Dave’s. And likely I’dhave come up, anyhow,” he added, “to inquireabout a tract of land you own east of the mountains.I heard you talked of selling.”

Instantly her face brightened. “Yes.But come in, will you not?” She turned and placedthe package on the table, and took one of two chairsnear the alcove. The azalea was so near that itsvivid flowers seemed to cast a reflection on her cheeks.“I presume you mean my tract in the WenatcheeMountains?” she went on engagingly. “Afew miles above Hesperides Vale.”

“Well, yes.” Banks seated himselfon the edge of the other chair and held his hat soas to conceal the maimed hand. “I didn’tknow you had but one piece. It’s up amongthe benches and takes in a kind of pocket. It’soff the line of irrigation, but if the springs turnout what I expect, it ought to be worth sixty dollarsan acre. And I want an option on the whole tractfor ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Her voice flutedincredulously. “But I am afraid I don’tunderstand exactly what an option is. Please explain,Mr. Banks.”

“Why, it’s this way. I pay somethingdown, say about three thousand, and you agree to letthe sale rest for well, say six months, while I prospectthe ground and see how it is likely to pan out.Afterwards, if I fail to buy, I naturally forfeitthe bonus and all improvements.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “Isee. But—you know it is wild land;you have been over the ground?”

“Not exactly, but I know the country, and I’vetalked with a man I can bank on, my, yes.”

“How soon”—she began, then,covering her eagerness, said: “I agree toyour option, Mr. Banks.”

He laid his hat on the floor and took out his billbook,in which he found two printed blanks, filled accordingto his terms and ready for her signature. “Ithought likely we could close the deal right up, ma’am,so’s I could catch the Wenatchee train thisafternoon. Your name goes here above mine.”

She took the paper and started buoyantly to the secretary,but the little man stopped her. “Read itover, read it over,” he cautioned. “Allsquare, isn’t it? And sign this duplicate,too. That’s right. You’re quitea business woman.”

He laughed his high, mirthless laugh, and, takinga check from the bill-book, added some bright goldpieces which he stacked on the table carefully besidethe package he had brought. “There’syour three thousand,” he said.

“It’s out of a little bunch of dust Ijust turned in at the assay office.”

“Thank you.” She stood waiting whilehe folded his duplicate and put it away, but he didnot rise to go, and after a moment, she went back toher chair by the scarlet azalea.

“They are doing really wonderful things in theWenatchee Valley,” she said graciously, willingto make conversation in consideration of that littlepile of clean, new coin that had come so opportunely,“the apples are marvelous. But”—andhere her conscience spoke—“you understandthis tract is unreclaimed desert land; you must doeverything.”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand that; but whatinterests me most in that pocket is that it belongedto David Weatherbee. He mapped out a project ofhis own long before anybody dreamed of HesperidesVale. He told me all about it; showed me theplans. That piece of ground got to be the gardenspot of the whole earth to him; and I can’tstand back and see it parcelled out to strangers.”

He paused. The color deepened a little in herface; she looked away through the west window.“I thought an awful lot of Dave,” he wenton. “I’d ought to. Likely youdon’t know it—he wasn’t thekind to talk much about himself—but I owemy life to him. It had commenced”—heheld up the crippled hand and smiled grimly—“whenDave found me curled up under the snow, but he stayed,in the teeth of a blizzard, to see me through.And afterwards he lost time, weeks when hours counted,taking care of me,— operated when it cameto it, like a regular doctor, my, yes. And whenI got to crawling around again, I found he’dmade me his partner.”

“He had made a discovery,” she asked,“while you were ill?”

“Yes, and you could bank on Dave it was a goodone. He knew the gravel every time. Butwe had to sell; it was the men who bought us out thatstruck it rich. You see, Dave had heavy billspressing him down here in the States; he never saidjust what he owed, but he had to have the money.And, my, when he was doing the bulk of the work, Icouldn’t say much. It was so the next timeand the next. We never could keep a claim longenough for the real clean-up. So, when I learnedto use my hand, I cut loose to try it alone.”

He halted again, but she waited in silence with herface turned to the harbor. “I drifted intothe Iditarod country,” he went on, “andwas among the first to make a strike. It wasthe luckiest move I ever made, but I wish now I hadstayed by Dave. I was only a few hundred milesaway, but I never thought of his needing me.That was the trouble. He was always putting someother man on his feet, cheering the rest along, butnot one of us ever thought of offering help to DaveWeatherbee. A fine, independent fellow like him.

“But I sure missed him,” he said.“Many a time there in the Iditarod I used toget to wishing we had that voice of his to take theedge off of things. Why, back on the Tanana I’veseen it keep a whole camp heartened; and after hepicked me up in that blizzard, when I was most donefor and couldn’t sleep, it seemed like his singingabout kept me alive. Sometimes still nights Ican hear those tunes yet. He knew a lot of ’em,but there was Carry Me Back to Old Virginny,and Heart Bowed Down, and You’ll RememberMe. I always thought that song reminded himof some girl down here in the States. He nevertold me so, always put me off if I said a word, andnone of us knew he was married then; but when he gotto singing that tune, somehow he seemed to forgetus boys and the camp and everything, and went trailingoff after his voice, looking for somebody clear outof sight. I know now, since I’ve seen you,I was likely right.”

Still she was silent. But she moved a littleand lifted her hand to the edge of the Satsuma jardiniere;her fingers closed on it in a tightening grip; sheheld her head high, but the lashes drooped over hereyes. Watching her, the miner’s seamedface worked. After a moment he said: “Theother night I paid seven dollars for a seat at theMetropolitan just to hear one of those first-classsingers try that song. The scenery was all right.There were the boys and two or three women sittingaround a camp-fire. And the fiddles got the tunefine, but my, my! I couldn’t understanda word. Seemed like that fellow was talking darnDago.”

At this she lifted her eyes. The shadow of asmile touched her mouth, though her lashes were wet.“And he was, Mr. Banks,” she said brightly.“He was. I know, because I was there.”

Banks picked up his hat and rose to his feet.“We were all mighty proud of Dave,” hesaid. “There wasn’t one of us wouldn’thave done his level best to reach him that last stampede;but I’m glad the chance came to Hollis Tisdale.There wasn’t another man in Alaska could havedone what he did. Yes, I’m mighty gladit was Tisdale who—found him.”He paused, holding his hat over the crippled hand,then added: “I suppose you never knew whatit means to be cold.”

She rose. The smile had left her lips, and shestood looking into his withered face with wide eyes.“I mean so cold you don’t care what happens.So cold you can lie down in your tracks, in a sixty-mile-an-hourblizzard and go to sleep.”

“No.” She shivered, and her voicewas almost a whisper. “I am afraid not.”

“Then you can’t begin to imagine whatTisdale did. You can’t see him fightinghis way through mountains, mushing ahead on the wintertrail, breaking road for his worn-out huskies, aloneday after day, with just poor Dave strapped to thesled.”

She put her hands to her ears. “Please,please don’t say any more,” she begged.“I know—all—about it.”

“Even about the wolves?”

She dropped her hands, bracing herself a little onthe table, and turned her face, looking, with thatmanner of one helplessly trapped, around the room.

“Even about the wolves?” he persisted.

“No. No,” she admitted at last.

He nodded. “I thought likely not.Hollis never told that. It goes against his grainto be made much of. He and Dave was cut out ofthe same block. But last night in the lobby tothe hotel, I happened on a fellow that met him inthe pass above Seward. There were four of ’emmushing through to some mines beyond the Susitna.It was snowing like blazes when they heard those wolves,and pretty soon Tisdale’s dogs came streakingby through the smother. Then a gun fired.It kept up, with just time enough between shots toload, until they came up to him. He had stoppedwhere a kind of small cave was scooped in the mountainsideand put the sled in and turned the huskies loose.He had had the time, too, to make a fire in front ofthe hole, but when the boys got there, his wood wasabout burned out, and the wolves had got Dave’sold husky, Jack. He had done his best to helphold off the pack. There’s no telling howmany Hollis killed; you see the rest fell on ’emsoon’s they dropped. It was hell. Nothingbut hair and blood and bones churned into the snowfar as you could see. Excuse me, ma’am;I guess it sounds a little rough. I’m moreused to talking to men, my, yes. But the fellowwho told me said Hollis knew well enough what was comingat the start, when he heard the first cry of the pack.He had a chance to make a roadhouse below the pass.Not one man in a thousand would have stayed by thatsled.”

His withered face worked again. He moved to thedoor. “But Dave would have done it.”His voice took a higher pitch. “Yes, ma’am,Dave would have done the same for Hollis Tisdale.They was a team; my, yes.” He laughed hishard, mirthless laugh. “Well, so long,”he said.

She did not answer. Half-way down the corridorBanks looked back through the open door. Shehad not moved from the place where he had left her,though her face was turned to the window. A littlefarther on, while he waited for the elevator, he sawshe had taken the package he had brought from Tisdale.She stood weighing it, undecided, in her hands, thendrew out the table drawer and laid it in. Shepaused another instant in uncertainty and, closingthe drawer, began to gather up the pieces of gold.

CHAPTER XIX

LUCKY BANKS AND THE PINK CHIFFON

On his way down from Vivian Court, the mining man’sattention was caught by the great corner show windowat Sedgewick-Wilson’s, and instantly out ofthe display of handsome evening gowns his eyes singleda dancing frock of pink chiffon. “She alwayslooked pretty,” he told himself, “but whenshe wore pink—my!” and he turned andfound his way through the swinging doors. A littlelater the elevator had left him at the second floor.For a moment the mirrors bewildered him; they gavea sense of vastness, repeating the elegant apartmentin every direction, and whichever way he glanced therewas himself, seated on the edge of a chair, his squareshoes set primly on the thick green carpet, his hatheld stiffly over the crippled hand. Then animposing young woman sauntered towards him. “Well,”she said severely, “what can I show you?”

Banks drew himself a little stiffer. “Adress,” he said abruptly in his highest key,“ready-made and pink.”

“What size?”

“Why”—the little man paused,and a blush that was nearer a shadow crossed his weather-wornface—“let me see. She’sfive feet seven and a quarter, in her shoes, and Ijudge a couple of inches wider through the shouldersthan you.” His glance moved to another saleswoman,who came a step nearer and stood listening, franklyamused. “You look more her figure,”he added.

“Takes a thirty-eight.” The firstsaleswoman brought out a simple gown of pink veilingand laid it on the rack before Banks, and he leanedforward and took a fold between his thumb and forefinger,gravely feeling the texture.

“This is priced at twenty-five dollars,”she said. “How does that suit?”

Banks drew himself erect. “There’sone down-stairs in the front window I like better,”he said.

The woman looked him shrewdly over. He had puthis hat down, and her glance rested involuntarilyon his maimed hand. “That pink chiffon isa hundred and twenty-five,” she explained.

“I can stand it; the price doesn’t cutany figure, if it’s what I want.”He paused, nodding a little aggressively and tappingthe carpet with one square foot. “The ladyit’s for is a mighty good judge of cloth, andI want you to show me the best you’ve got.”

She glanced at the other saleswoman, but she had turnedher back—her shoulders shook—andshe hurried to bring out a duplicate of the pink chiffon,which she arranged carefully on the rack. Bank’sface softened; he reached to touch it with a sortof caress. “This is more like it,”he said; then, turning to the second girl, “butI can tell better if you’ll put it on.You don’t seem very busy,” he added quickly,“and I’ll pay you your time.”

“Why, that’s all right,” she answeredand came to pick up the gown. “I’llbe glad to; that’s what I’m here for.”

She disappeared, laughing, into a dressing-room, andpresently the first saleswoman excused herself towait on new customers. The girl came back transformed.She had a handsome brunette face, with merry dark eyesand a great deal of black hair arranged in an elaborateend striking coiffure. “Isn’t itswell?” she asked, walking leisurely before him.“But you’ll have to fasten it for her;it hooks in the back.” Then she stopped;the fun went out of her face; her glance had fallento his crippled hand. “I’m awfullysorry,” she stammered. “Of courseshe can manage it herself; we all have to sometimes.”

But the little man was rapt in the gown. “I’lltake it!” he said tremulously. “Itsuits you great, but, my! She’ll be a sight.”

“I’ll bet she’s pretty,” saidthe girl, still trying to make amends. “I’dlike to see her in this chiffon. And I guess yourparty will be swell.”

Banks looked troubled. “It isn’ta party; not exactly. You see she’s beenaway from town quite a spell, and I thought likelyshe’d be a little short on clothes. I guesswhile I’m about it I may as well take along everythingthat naturally goes with this dress; shoes and socksand a hat and— flannels—”

He paused in uncertainty, for the girl had suddenlyturned her back again. “I’d liketo leave the rest to you,” he added. “Pickout the best; the whole outfit straight through.”

“I’ll be glad to.” The girlturned again, controlling a last dimple. “Youare the thoughtfullest man I ever saw on this floor.She’s in luck; but I guess you aren’tmarried—yet.”

Banks laughed his high, strained laugh and rose.“No,” he answered briskly, “no,not exactly. But I want you to hurry out thisbill of goods in time for the four-ten Great Northern.I can’t go without it, and I’m countingon making Wenatchee to-night.”

“Wenatchee?” exclaimed the girl.“Is that where you expect her to wear this chiffon?Why, it’s the dustiest place under the sun.Take my word for it; I came from there. And,see here, they don’t give big parties there;the people are just nice and friendly; it’s asmall town. If I were you I’d choose atan; a veiling gown, like this first one we showedyou, only tan. Then you could put the differencein price into a coat;—we have some smartones in tan,—with a light pongee dusterto slip over it all, if she’s driving or usinga machine.”

Banks nodded. “Sure, tuck them all in;but this pink dress goes, too, and see it’son top. Likely they’ll go best in a trunk.Now, if you will give me the bill—”

He paused to take out his poke, but the girl laughed.“I can’t,” she said. “Itwill take me half an hour to foot it all up after I’vepicked out the things. And unless you give mea limit, I won’t know where to stop. Thenthere’s the hat. I never would dare to choosethat for a woman I’ve never seen, unless she’smy style.”

“She is,” the little man answered gravely,“that’s why I picked you out when I firstcome in. I guess maybe the other one was niceall right, but she was a little too dried-up and frozeto do.”

“Then I know what I’d like to send; it’sa hat I tried on this morning. A nice taupe—that’sabout the color of that sage-brush country over thereand won’t show the dust—and it’strimmed with just one stunning plume the same shadeand a wreath of the tiniest pink French roses set underthe velvet brim. It looked like it was made forme, but twelve and a half is my limit and it’stwenty-five dollars. Maybe you don’t wantto go that high.”

Banks untied the poke and poured the remaining goldpieces on the show-case; then he found a pocket-bookfrom which he took several crisp bills. “There’sthree hundred,” he said briefly, “and anotherten for the trunk. I want you to pick out a nicelittle one I can stow in the back of a one-seatedautomobile. The hat and this pink dress go ontop; and be sure you get the outfit down to that four-tentrain. Good-by,” he put out his hand, anda gleam of warmth touched his bleak face. “I’mglad I met you.”

“And so am I. Good-by.” She stoppedgathering up the money long enough to give him herhand. “And good luck,” she added.

The first saleswoman, again at leisure, approachedand stood looking after him as he hurried with hisquick, uneven steps towards the elevator. “Ofall things!” she exclaimed. “He didbuy that pink chiffon. Who’d ever havethought he had the money or the taste. But I supposehe’s one of those lucky fellows who’vestruck it rich in Alaska.”

The other young woman nodded. “His goldcame out of one of those pokes, and it’s freshfrom the mint. But I guess he’s earned allhe’s got, every cent. I’ll bet he’sstarved and froze; suffered ways we don’t know.And he’s spending it on a girl. I’dlike to see her. Maybe she’s the cold-bloodedkind that’ll snub him and make fun of this chiffon.”

She turned into the dressing-room, and it was thenBanks stopped and brought out the loose change inhis pockets. There was a ten dollar piece, towhich he added two and a half in silver. He startedback up the room, but the girl had disappeared, and,while he stood hesitating, a floor-walker approached.

“Have you forgotten something?” he askedpolitely.

“Yes,” answered Banks, “I forgotto give this money to the young lady who was waitingon me. She’s likely gone to take off a pinkdress I bought. But she’s the one withlots of black hair and pink cheeks and a real nicesmile; you couldn’t miss her. And you mightas well give her this; tell her it’s the othertwelve and a half to make up the price of that hat;a duplicate of the one we were talking about.She’ll understand.”

He called these final words over his shoulder, forthe elevator had stopped, and he hurried to catchit. Going down, he looked at his watch; he hadspent an hour buying that dress. But on the lowerfloor he noticed a telephone booth and saw a way tomake up the time.

“Hello!” he called, pitching his voiceto a treble. “This is Banks, the mineryou was trying to talk into buying that little redcar last week; roadster I think you said ’twas.Well, I want you to fire up and run down to the Rainier-Grandquick as you can.”

He listened a moment, then: “Yes, likelyI’ll change my mind, if I get so’s I candrive her all right by three p.m. I’m goingeast of the mountains, and if I buy I’ve gotto ship her on the four-ten train—Yes, Imean the little one with a seat to accommodate two,with a place to carry a trunk behind. Now getbusy and rush her down. I’ve got some errandsto do, and I want you to hurry me around; then we’llget away from the crowd out on the boulevard whereI can have a clear track to break her on.”

The sale was made, and the mining man must have appliedhimself successfully to his lesson, for the followingmorning, when the red car spun out of Wenatchee andup the lifting valley road, a snug steamer-trunk wasstowed in the box behind, and Banks at the steeringgear was traveling alone. To be sure the risingcurves were made in sudden spurts and jerks, but hislack of skill was reinforced by a tireless vigilancegathered through breaking days of driving and mushingover hazardous trails. And he had made an earlystart; few wayfarers were yet astir. But at last,high up where the track doubled the summit of a slopethat lifted in a bluff overhead, and on the otherhand dropped precipitously to the river, the littleman barely averted catastrophe. The driver andthe vehicle were hidden by the curve, but at his warninghonk, two percherons that blocked the way halted and,lunging at his repeated note, crowded back on the teamthey led. Then a woman’s voice shrilled:“I’ve got the heaviest load; you giveme right of way.”

Banks sprang out and ran forward past the horses.The driver, dressed in a skirt and blouse of khaki,was seated on a load of lumber. She held thereins high in yellow-gauntleted hands, and a rope ofloosened red hair hung below a smart campaign hat.“I can’t back,” she exclaimed aggressively.“You got to give me right of way.”

“Ain’t there a man with the outfit?”he asked uncertainly.

“No,” she snapped. “Do I looklike I need one?” But she hurried on tremulously:“My husband’s running the mill night andday, and Bryant, down the valley, had to have hisboxes for the apple crop. He said send the boardsdown, and he’d let a couple of his Japs knock’em together. So I thought with an earlystart and a clear track, I could drive. But you’vegot to turn out. I’ve got the heavy load.”

Banks shook his head.

“It’s my first trip,” he said dubiously,“and I ain’t learned to back her onlyenough to turn ’round; and it’s too narrow.But I used to drive pretty good seven or eight yearsago; and I’ve been managing a dog team off andon ever since. Let me climb up there and backyour load.”

“You can’t do it,” she cried.“It’s up-grade and a mean curve, and thatnigh leader, for a first-class draught horse, has thecussedest disposition you ever saw. You can’tback him short of a gunshot under his nose, and yougot to get that buzz-wagon of yours out of sight beforeI can get him past.”

“Then,” said Banks, and smiled grimly,“I guess it’s up to me to back.”He started to return to the machine but paused toadd over his shoulder: “It’s allright; don’t you be scared. No matter whathappens, you forget it and drive straight ahead.”

But destiny, who had scourged and thwarted the littleman so many years, was in a humorous mood that day.The little red car backed down from the bend in zigzagspurts, grazing the bluff, sheering off to coast theriver-ward brink; then, in the final instant, whenthe machine failed to respond to the lever speedilyenough, a spur of rock jutting beyond the roadwayeased the outer wheel. It rolled up, all but over,while the next tire met the obstruction and caught.Banks laughed. “Hooray!” he piped.“Now swing the corner, lady! All circleto the left.”

“Get up!” the driver shrilled. “Getup, now, Duke, you imp!” And the leader, balkingsuspiciously at the explosive machine, felt a smarttouch of the whip. He plunged, sidled againstthe bluff and broke by. There was barely roomto make that turn; the tailboard of the wagon, grating,left a long blemish on the bright body of the car,but as the load rolled on down the incline, Bankschurned gayly up around the bend.

In less than an hour Hesperides Vale stretched behindhim, and the bold front of Cerberus lifted holdingthe gap. Tisdale had warned him of the barbed-wirefence, and while he cautiously rounded the mountain,his old misgiving rose. What though he had madegood; what though the Iditarod had filled his pokemany times over, the north had taken heavy toll.He had left his youth up there, and what would thissmart little automobile count against a whole righthand? And this trunkful of clothes—whatwould it weigh against a good-sized man? Still,still, though she might have taken her pick of ’emall, Annabel had never married, and she had kept hisgoats. Then he remembered Tisdale had said thatshe too had had a hard fight, and the years must havechanged her. And hadn’t she herself toldhim, in that letter he carried in his breast pocket,that if he cared to come and see the goats, he wouldfind his investment was turning out fine, but he needn’texpect she had kept her own good looks?

The little man smiled with returning confidence and,lifting his glance, saw the cabin and the browsingflock cut off by the barbed-wire fence from the road.Then as he brought the car to a stop, the collie flewbarking against the wicket, and a gaunt woman rosefrom a rock and stood shading her eyes from the morningsun.

He sprang down and spoke to the dog, and instantlyhis tone quieted the collie, but the woman came nearerto point at the sign. “You better readthat,” she threatened.

His hand dropped from the wicket, and he stood staringat her across the barbed wire. “I was lookingfor a lady,” he said slowly, “but I guesslikely I’ve made a mistake.”

She came another step and, again shading her eyes,stared back. A look half eager, half wistful,trembled for a moment through the forbidding tensenessof her face. “All the men I’ve seenin automobiles up here were looking for land,”she replied defiantly.

He nodded; his eyes did not move from her face, butthey shone like two chippings of blue glacier ice,and his voice when he spoke piped its sharpest key.“So am I. I’ve got an option on a pocketsomewheres in this range, and the lady I’m inquiringfor happened to homestead the quarter below.It sort of overlaps, so’s she put her improvementson the wrong edge. Yes, ma’am, I’velikely made a mistake, but, you see, I heard she hada bunch o’ goats.”

There was a brief silence then. “Anyhow,you must o’ come from that surveyor,”she said. “Maybe he was just a smooth talker,but he had a nice face; laughing crinkles around hiseyes and a way of looking at you, if you’d donea mean thing, to make you feel like the scum of theearth. But he happened to be acquainted withthe man that made me a present of my first billy andewes, and you—favor him a little.”She paused, then went on unsteadily, while her eyescontinued to search him. “He was about yoursize, but he’s been up in Alaska, way in theinterior somewheres for years, and the letter I wrotehim couldn’t have reached him inside a month.I figured if he came out, he would just about catchthe last steamer in October.”

“So he would, if he hadn’t come down toSeattle already.” He stopped, fumblingwith the pin, and threw open the wicket. “Iguess I ain’t changed much more’n you,Annabel.”

The woman was silent. Her chin dropped; her glancesought the earth. Then Banks turned to fastenthe gate behind him, and she started to stalk mechanicallyup the field towards the cabin. “I feelall broke up,” he said, overtaking her; “likeI’d been struck by a blizzard. Why, therewas a girl down in Seattle, she sold me a bill ofgoods that looked more like you than you do yourself.I know I got myself to blame, but I never countedfor a minute on your keeping the goats.”

The woman stalked on a little faster, but she couldnot outstrip the prospector; she turned her face,in refuge, to the flock. “Goats,”she said unsteadily, “goats—are allright when you get used to ’em. They’resomething like children, I guess; a sight of troublebut good company and mighty comforting to have ’round.And they’re just as different. There’sold Dad, the cautious looking one standing off therewatching us and chewing the end of a thistle.It might as well be a toothpick, and I’ll bethe’s thinking: ‘You can’t getthe best of me, no, sir.’ And that pieceof wisdom next to him is the Professor. Don’the remind you of the old schoolmaster down at theCorners? And there goes Johnny Banks. Seehim? The pert little fellow chasing up the field.You never can tell where he’ll turn up or whathe’ll do next.”

She laughed a dry, forced laugh, and Banks echoedit in his strained key. “But we are goingto get rid of ’em. They’re a finebunch—you’ve brought ’em upsplendid, made a sight better showing than I could—butwe are going to get rid of ’em, yes, ma’am,and forget ’em as quick’s we can.We are going to start right now to make up those sevenyears.”

They had reached the cabin, and he stopped on thethreshold. “My, my,” he said softly,“don’t it look homey? There’syour Dad’s old chair, and the dresser and themelodion. I was ’fraid you’d soldthat, Annabel.”

“I could have, there’s been plenty ofchances, but Dad gave it to me, don’t you remember?the Christmas I was sixteen.”

“My, yes, and you opened it right there, underthe cherry tree, and started Home, Sweet Home.I can hear it now, and the crowd joining in.I’m glad you kept it, Annabel; a new one wouldn’tseem just the same.”

“It’s traveled though. You oughtto have seen me moving from Oregon. The old deliverywagon was heaping full.” Her laugh thistime was spontaneous. “And old Kate couldn’tmake more than ten miles a day. But I had a goodtent, and when she had done her day’s stunt,I just tied her out to feed and made camp. Thehardest was keeping track of the goats, but the flockwas small then, and I had two dogs.”

“I see,” said Banks. “You kept’em ahead of the wagon when you was on the roadand let ’em forage for themselves. But I’dlike to have a look at old Kate. She came ofgood stock.”

Annabel went over and, seating herself in her father’schair, untied her sunbonnet. “Kate died,”she said. “I hired her out to a man downthe valley, and he worked her too hard in the heat.”

There was a silent moment. She took off the bonnetand laid it in her lap. The light, streamingthrough a small window, touched her hair, which wasbound in smooth, thick braids around her head.

“My, my,” the little man said, “ain’tit a sight? I’d have known you in a minutewithout that bonnet down at the gate. My, butdon’t it make a difference what a woman wears?I’ll bet I can’t tell you from the girlI left in Oregon when you’ve changed your clothes.”

She shook her head. “This denim is allI’ve got,” she said, with a touch of defiance.“I wore out all I had; goats are hard on clothes.”

“I thought likely.” His bleak facebegan to glow. “And I knew you was outof town away from the stores, so’s I broughtalong a little outfit. You wait a minute, andI’ll fetch it right in.”

He was gone before he finished speaking and returnedin an incredibly short time with the trunk, whichhe deposited on the floor before her. Then hefelt in his pocket and, finding the key, fitted itand lifted the lid. It was then, for the firsttime, she noticed the maimed hand.

“Johnny!” she cried, and the pent emotionsurged in her voice. “Johnny, you’vebeen—hurt.”

“Oh, that don’t amount to anything now,only the looks. I can turn out just as much work.”

He hurried to open the tray, but before he could removethe packing of tissue paper that enveloped the hat,she reached and took the crippled hand between herown. Her fingers fluttered, caressing, while withmaternal protectiveness they covered it, and she drewhim back to the broad arm of her chair. The defiancehad gone out of her face; her eyes were misty andtender. “You tell me what happened,”she said.

So came Lucky Banks’ hour. He saw thiswoman who had been fond of pretty clothes, who hadonce worn them but was now reduced to a single frockof coarse denim, turn from the fine outfit beforeit was even displayed; waiting, with a wondrouslycomforting solicitude he never had suspected in thegirl whom he had left in Oregon, to hear first thatmiserable story of the trail. He told it briefly,but with the vividness of one whose words are coinedstraight from the crucible of bitter experience, andwhile she listened, her heart shone in her passionateeyes. “What if it had happened,”she broke out at last. “If it had, Johnny,it would have been my fault. I drove you intogoing up there. I’m responsible for thishand. I—I couldn’t have stoodworse than that.”

The little man beamed. “Is that so, Annabel?Then I’m mighty glad Weatherbee followed thatstampede. Nobody else would have seen my handsticking up through the snow and stopped to dig meout. Unless—” he added thoughtfully,“it was Hollis Tisdale. Yes, likely Holliswould. He was the only man in Alaska fit to beDave’s running mate.”

“Do you mean that surveyor?” she asked.

Banks nodded.

“I thought so,” she said with satisfaction.“Dad taught me to size people up on sight.He could tell the first minute he saw a man’sface whether he was good for a bill of groceries ornot; and I knew that surveyor was straight. Ibet he knew you was in Seattle when he got me to write.But I wish I could have a look at the other one.He must be—great.”

Banks nodded again. “He was,” heanswered huskily. “He was. But he’smade his last trip. I wasn’t three hundredmiles off, but I never thought of Dave Weatherbee’sneeding help; it took Tisdale, clear off in Nome, overa thousand miles, to sense something was wrong.But he started to mush it, alone with his huskies,to the Iditarod and on to the Aurora, Dave’smine. You don’t know anything about thatwinter trail, Annabel. It means from twenty tofifty below, with the wind swooping out of every canyon,cross-cutting like knives, and not the sign of a road-housein days, in weeks sometimes. But he made it,”—Banks’voice reached high pitch—“He beatthe records, my, yes.”

“And something was wrong?” asked Annabel,breaking the pause.

Banks nodded again. “You remember thatsheepman down in Oregon they brought in from the range.The one that ripped up his comforter that night atthe hotel and set the wool in little rolls around thefloor; thought he was tending sheep? Well, that’swhat was happening. And Hollis was two days late.Dave had started for the coast; not the regular wayto Fairbanks and out by stage to Valdez, but a newroute through the Alaska Range to strike the Susitnaand on to Seward. And he had fresh dogs.He was through Rainy Pass when Tisdale began to catchup.”

“He did catch up?” Annabel questionedagain hurriedly.

Banks nodded once more. He drew his hand awayand rose from his seat on the chair arm. Hiseyes were shining like blue glacier ice. “Itwas in a blizzard; the same as the day I lost my fingers—only—Hollis—hewas too late.” He turned and walked unsteadilyto the door and stood looking out. “I wasn’tthree hundred miles from the Aurora,” he added.“I could have been in time. I can’tever forget that.”

Annabel rose and stood watching him, with the emotionplaying in her face. “Johnny!” sheexclaimed at last. “Oh, Johnny!” Shewent over and put her arm protectively around hisshoulders. “I know just how you feel; butyou didn’t drive him to it. You were justbusy and interested in your work. You’dhave gone in a minute, left everything, if you hadknown.”

“That’s it; I ought to have known.I ought to have kept track of Dave; run over oncein a while to say hullo. I’d have likelyseen it was coming on, then, in time. When Tisdalefound him, he’d been setting out little piecesof spruce, like an orchard in the snow. You see,”he added after a moment, “Dave always expectedto come back here when he struck it rich and starta fruit ranch. He was the man who owned thispocket.”

A sudden understanding shone in Annabel’s face.“And that’s why you got an option on it;you want to carry out his scheme. I’ll helpyou, Johnny, I’ll do my level best.”

Banks turned and looked at her. “That’sall I want, Annabel. I was a little afraid you’dbe sick of the place. But, my, we can go rightahead and set a crew of men to grubbing out the sageon both sections to once. Folks might have said,seeing you take up with a undersized, froze-up fellowlike me, you was marrying me for my money; but theycan’t, no, ma’am, not when they see thevaluable claim you are developing in your own right.”

Annabel laughed. “I guess you’reentitled to your turn making fun of me. But haveyou got money, Johnny? I never thought of that.”

“Likely not. But the Annabel sure broughtme luck; that name worked better than a rabbit’sfoot. Here’s a little bunch of nuggets Isaved out of the first clean-up.” He pausedto take a small new poke from an inner pocket and,untying the string, poured the contents in her hand.“I thought likely you’d want ’emmade up in a necklace with a few diamonds or mebbeemeralds mixed in.”

She stood looking at the shining rough pieces of goldin her palm, while a certain pride rose through thewonder in her face. “My gracious!”she exclaimed, and a spark of her lost youth revived.“My gracious. And you named your mine afterme. I bet it was on account of that billy andthe ewes.”

“Likely,” the little man beamed.“But more than likely it was because that strikewas a sure thing, and you was behind it, Annabel.My, yes, you was responsible I ever got to Alaska;let alone stuck it out. Sure as a grubstake,you gave me my start. Now come take a look atthis outfit I brought.”

He held the poke open while she poured the nuggetsback. “I like them plain,” she said,“but I never saw any made up. I leave itto you.”

“Then I make it emeralds to match the Green,and mebbe a few sparklers thrown in.” Helaughed gayly and, taking her arm, drew her back acrossthe room to the open trunk; when she was seated againin the armchair, he knelt to remove the first layerof tissue packing. She took the precaution tospread one smooth sheet of it on her lap and, leaningforward, saw him uncover the plume, the entire hat.“Gracious goodness!” she exclaimed tremulously,as he lifted it awkwardly to her eager hands, “ain’tit splendid? I didn’t know they were makingthem like this. I never saw such roses; why,they look alive and ready to smell; and ain’tthey pretty fixed this way under the brim?”She paused, turning the masterpiece slowly, like aconnoisseur. “I bet I could have worn itwhen I was in Oregon. It would have been my style.Do you suppose”—she glanced at Bankstimidly—“I’d dare to try itif my hair was done real nice, and I had on a betterdress?”

“My, yes.” Banks laughed again excitedly,and with growing confidence opened the next compartmentto display the chiffon gown. “Wait tillyou get this on. You’ll be a sight.You always was in pink.” He paused to takethe hat and, wheeling, placed it on the old dresser,and so made room for the frock on her lap. “Now,ain’t that soft and peachy and—andrich?”

But Annabel was silent. She lifted her eyes fromthe gown to Johnny, and they were full of mist.Then her lip quivered, and a drop splashed down onthe delicate fabric. “My gracious!”she cried in consternation and, rising, held the gownoff at arm’s-length. “Do you supposeit’s going to spot?”

And Banks’ laugh piped once more. “Iguess it can stand a little salt water,” hereplied. “But if it can’t, we canget a duplicate. And now you just take your timeand pick out what you want to wear. I am goingup the bench to look around and find Dave’ssprings. It’ll likely take me an hour orso, and you can be ready to start soon’s I getback.”

“Start?” she repeated. “Wasyou counting on going somewhere?”

“My, yes. I was counting on taking youa little spin down to Wenatchee the first thing, andhaving a chicken dinner to the hotel. Then, soon’swe get a license and hunt up a sky man, we are goingto run down to Oregon and have a look at the old Corners.”

“I never rode in an automobile,” she said,glowing, “but I think I’d like it fine.”

“I bet you will. I bet, coming home, you’llbe running the machine yourself half the time.”

He hurried away then, laughing his shrillest key,and Annabel laid the pink chiffon back in the trayto follow him to the door. She stood smiling,though the mist alternately gathered and cleared inher eyes, watching him up the vale and waiting tosee him reappear on the front of the bench. Buthe found her ready when he returned; and the hat wasbecoming beyond her hopes. It brought back ina measure the old brightness that was half a challengein her air, so that, to the mining man, she seemedto have gone back, almost, those lost years. Still,his satisfaction was tempered, and instantly she understoodthe cause. “The roses seemed enough pinktoday,” she said tactfully, “till I wearoff some of this tan. But I like this tan clothawful well, don’t you? It’s a nicecolor for out-of-doors and won’t show the dust.And doesn’t it fit perfectly splendid?And look at these shoes. I don’t see howyou remembered my size. You’ve thoughtof everything. There’s even an automobileveil. A lady that came out here with Mr. Tisdalehad one about the same shade. But you’llhave to help me put it on so I won’t spoil thisplume.”

She pushed the pongee coat, which was carefully foldedacross the back of a chair, a little aside and, seatingherself before the mirror, reached to take the scarfand exposed a folded paper on the dresser. “Ifound that envelope pinned inside the hat,”she said still diplomatically, though a touch of humorshaded her lips. “There’s a ten dollarpiece in it and two and a half in silver. Probablyit’s your change.”

But Banks turned the envelope and read pencilled acrossthe front: “There isn’t any duplicate,but thanks just the same.”

CHAPTER XX

KERNEL AND PEACH

After that little wedding journey down in Oregon,Banks returned to Seattle to engage a crew for thefirst step to reclamation; combining pleasure withbusiness, he brought Annabel and registered at theNew Washington Hotel. And here Daniels, detailedto learn something in regard to the Iditarod strikewhere, it was rumored, the Morgansteins were negotiatingfor the miner’s valuable holdings, finally tracedhim.

“Sure we have a Banks of Alaska with us,”the clerk responded, smiling, and turned the pageto show the Press representative the strained,left-handed signature. “He’s a sawed-offspecimen with a face like a peachstone; but he saidif he put down his regular name, the boys likely wouldmiss his trail.”

“Mrs. Annabel Green Banks Hesperides Vale,”read Jimmie.

“Lucky Banks Iditarod and Hesperides Vale.

“This looks like my man, sure; but who is Mrs.Green-Banks? His wife or mother?”

“Bride,” the clerk replied laconically.“It’s a sort of overdue honeymoon.But she’s rather smart looking; fine eyes andtall enough to make up for him. They’rea pair.”

“I see. Kernel and peach. But HesperidesVale,” Daniels went on thoughtfully. “Why,that’s in the new fruit belt over near Wenatchee,my old stamping-ground.”

The clerk nodded. “She owns some orchardlands over there and to hear him talk, you’dthink she had the money; Until it comes to ordering;then the Queen of Sheba isn’t in it. ’Iguess we can stand the best room in the house,’he says. And when I showed them the blue suiteand told them Tarquina, the prima donna opening atthe Metropolitan to-night, had the companion suitein rose, it’s: ’Do you think you canput up with this blue, Annabel?’ But there comesthe cameo now. No, the other way, from the street.”

Jimmie met the prospector midway across the lobby.“Mr. Banks?” he began genially. “Iam the lucky one this time; I came in purposely tosee you. I am Daniels, representing the SeattlePress. My paper is particular about the Alaskanews, and I came straight to headquarters to find outabout the Iditarod camp.”

Banks kept on to the desk, and Jimmie turned to walkwith him. The clerk was ready with his key.“Mrs. Banks hasn’t come in yet,”he said, smiling.

“She’s likely been kept up at Sedgewick-Wilson’s.I introduced her to a friend of mine there. Ihad to chase around to find a contractor that couldship his own scrapers and shovels across the range,and I thought the time would go quicker, for her,picking out clothes. But,” he added, turningto the reporter, “we may as well sit down andwait for her here in the lobby.”

“I understand,” began Daniels, openinghis notebook on the arm of his chair, “thatyour placer in the Iditarod country has panned outa clear one hundred thousand dollars.”

“Ninety-five thousand, two hundred and twenty-six,”corrected the mining man, “with the last clean-upto hear from.”

Jimmie set these figures down, then asked: “Isthe rumor true that the Morgansteins are consideringan offer from you?”

“No, sir,” piped the little man.“They made me an offer. I gave ’eman option on my bunch of claims for a hundred andfifty thousand. Their engineer has gone in tolook the property over. If they buy, they’lllikely send a dredger through by spring and work abig bunch of men.”

There was a silent moment while Jimmie recorded thesefacts, then: “And I understand you areinterested in fruit lands east of the mountains,”he said. “It often happens that way.Men make their pile up there in the frozen north andcome back here to Washington to invest it.”

“Likely,” replied Banks shortly.“Likely. But it’s my wife that ownsthe property in the fruit belt. And it’sa mighty promising layout; it’s up to me tostay with it till she gets her improvements in.Afterwards—now I want you to get this incorrect. Last time things got mixed; the youngfellow wrote me down Bangs. And I’ve readthings in the newspaper lately about Hollis Tisdalethat I know for a fact ain’t so.”

“Hollis Tisdale?” Jimmie suspended hispencil. “So you know the Sphynx of theYukon, do you?”

“That’s it. That’s the namethat blame newspaper called him. Sphynx nothing.Hollis Tisdale is the best known man in Alaska andthe best liked. If the Government had had thesense to put him at the head of the Alaska business,there’d been something doing, my, yes.”

The reporter finished his period. “Don’tlet this interview bother you,” he said.“It’s going into my paper straight, Mr.Banks, and in your own words.”

While he spoke, his vigilant glance rested lightlyon one of the several guests scattered about the lobby.He was a grave and thoughtful man and had seemed deeplyengrossed in a magazine, but he had changed his seatfor a chair within speaking distance, and Jimmie hadnot seen him turn a page.

“What I was going to say, then,” resumedBanks, “was that afterwards, when the orchardsare in shape, I am going back to Alaska and take abunch of those abandoned claims, where the minershave quit turning up the earth, and just seed ’emto oats and blue stem. Either would do mightywell. The sun shines hot long summer days, andthe ground keeps moist from the melting snow on themountains. I’ve seen little patches of grainup there and hay ripening and standing high as myshoulder. But what they need most in the interioris stock farms, horses and beeves, and I am going totake in a fine bunch of both; they’ll do fine;winter right along with the caribou and reindeer.”

“Well, that’s a new idea to me,”exclaimed Daniels. “Alaska to me has alwaysstood for blizzards, snow, glaciers, impregnable mountains,bleak and barren plains like the steppes of Russia,and privation, privation of the worst kind.”

Banks nodded grimly. “That’s becausethe first of us got caught by winter unprepared.Why, men freeze to death every blizzard right herein the States; sometimes it’s in Dakota; sometimesold New York, with railroads lacing back and forthclose as shoestrings. And imagine that big, unsettledAlaska interior without a single railroad and onlyone wagon-road; men most of the time breaking theirown trails. Not a town or a house sometimes inhundreds of miles to shelter ’em, if a stormhappens to break. But you talk with any Swedeminer from up there. He’ll tell you theycould make a new Sweden out of Alaska. Let ususe the timber for building and fuel; let a man that’sgot the money to do it start a lumber-mill or minethe coal. Give us the same land and mineral lawsyou have here in the States, and homeseekers wouldflock in thick as birds in springtime.”

The stranger closed his magazine. “Pardonme,” he said, taking advantage of the pause,“but do you mean that Conservation is all thatis keeping home-seekers out of Alaska?”

Banks nodded this time with a kind of fierceness;his eyes scintillated a white heat, but he suppressedthe imminent explosion and began with forced mildness,“My, yes. But you imagine a man trying tolocate with ninety-five per cent. of the country reserved.First you’ve got to consider the Coast Range.The great wall of China’s nothing but a lineof ninepins to the Chugach and St. Elias wall.The Almighty builds strong, and he set that wall tohold the Pacific Ocean back. Imagine peaks piledmiles high and cemented together with glaciers; the

Malispina alone has eighty miles of water front; andthere’s the Nanatuk, Columbia, Muir; but theGovernment ain’t found names for more’nhalf of ’em yet, nor a quarter of the mountains.Now imagine a man getting his family over that divide,driving his little bunch of cattle through, packingan outfit to keep ’em going the first year orso. Suppose he’s even able to take alonga portable house; what’s he going to do aboutfuel? Is he going to trek back hundreds of milesto the seaport, like the Government expects, to packin coal? Australian maybe, or Japan low grade,but more likely it’s Pennsylvania sold on thedock for as high as seventeen dollars a ton. Yes,sir, and with Alaska coal, the best kind and enoughto supply the United States for six hundred years,scattered all around, cropping right out of the ground.Think of him camped alongside a whole forest of spruce,where he can’t cut a stick.”

The little man’s voice had reached high pitch;he rose and took a short, swift turn across the floor.The stranger was silent; apparently he was weighingthis astonishing information. But Daniels brokethe pause.

“The Government ought to hurry those investigations,”he said. “Foster, the mining engineer,told me never but one coal patent had been allowedin all Alaska, and that’s on the coast.He has put thousands into coal land and can’tget title or his money back. The company he isinterested with has had to stop development, because,pending investigation, no man can mine coal untilhis patent is secured. It looks like the countryis strangled in red tape.”

“It is,” cried Banks. “Andone President’s so busy building a railroad forthe Filipinos, and rushing supplies to the Panama Canalhe goes out of office and clear forgets he’sleft Alaska temporarily tied up; and the next onehas his hands so full fixing the tariff and runningdown the trusts he can’t look the question up.And if he could, Congress is working overtime, appropriatingthe treasury money home in the States. There’sso many Government buildings to put up and harborsand rivers to dredge, it can’t even afford togive us a few lights and charts, and ships keep onfeeling their way and going to destruction on the Alaskacoast. Alaska is side-tracked. She’sbeen left standing so long she’s going to rust.”

“If some of our senators could listen to you,”said the stranger, with a swift and vanishing smile,“their eyes would be opened. But that isthe trouble; Alaska has had no voice. It is trueeach congressman has been so burdened with the wantsof his own State that session after session has closedbefore the Alaska bills were reached. We havebeen accustomed to look on Alaska as a bleak and forbiddingcountry, with a floating population of adventurersand lawless men, who go there with the intention tostay only long enough to reap a mineral harvest.If she had other great resources and such citizensas you, why were you not in Washington to exploither?”

Lucky Banks shook his head. “Up to thisyear,” he said and smiled grimly, “I couldn’thave made the trip without beating my way, and I guessif I went to some of those senators now and escapedbeing put down for an ex-convict, they’d sayI was engineering a trust. They’d turn anotherkey on Alaska to keep me out.”

He wheeled to tramp down the lobby, then stopped.Annabel had entered. Annabel arrayed in a new,imported tailored suit of excellent cloth, in a shadeof Copenhagen blue, and a chic hat of blue beaver trimmedwith paradise. Instantly the mining man’sindignation cooled. He put aside Alaska’swrongs and hurried, beaming, to meet his wife.“Why, you bought blue,” he said with pleasedsurprise. “And you can wear it, my, yes,about as well as pink.”

Annabel smiled with the little ironical curl of thelip that showed plainly her good sense held her steady,on the crest of that high wave whereon it had beenfortune’s freak to raise her. “Lucileshowed me a place, on the next floor of the store,where I could get the tan taken off my face whileI was waiting for alterations to my suit. Theydid it with a sort of cold cream and hot water.There’s just a streak left around my neck, andI can cover that with the necklace.” Shepaused then added with a gentle conciliation creepingthrough her confidential tone: “I am goingto wear the pink chiffon to-night to hear Tarquina.Lucile says it’s all right for a box party,opening night. I like her real well. I askedher to go with us, and she’s coming early, intime for dinner, at seven.”

“I thought you’d make a team,” repliedBanks, delighted. “And I’m glad youasked her, my, yes. It would have been lonesomesitting by ourselves ’mongst the empty chairs.”

They were walking towards the elevator, and Daniels,who had learned from the clerk that the importantlooking stranger who had seemed so interested in Banks’information, was the head of the new coal commission,going north for investigation, stopped the prospectorto say good-by.

“I want to thank you for that interview, Mr.Banks,” he said frankly. “I’velearned more about Alaska from you in fifteen minutesthan I had put together in five years.”

“You are welcome, so’s you get it in straight.But,”—and the little man drew himselfproudly erect,—“I want to make youacquainted with Mrs. Banks, Mr. Daniels.”

“I am awfully glad to meet you, Mrs. Banks,”said Jimmie cordially, offering his hand. “Iunderstand you are from Hesperides Vale, and I grewup over there in the Columbia desert. It’salmost like seeing friends from home.”

“Likely,” Banks began, but his glancemoved from the reporter to his wife and he repeatedless certainly, “likely we could get him to takeone of those chairs off our hands.”

Annabel’s humor rose to her eyes. “He’shired a box for Carmen to-night; they were out ofseats in the divans, and it worries him because ourparty is so small.”

“I’d be delighted, only,”—Jimmiepaused, flushing and looking intently inside his hat—“thefact is, I am going to take the Society Editor on mypaper. We have miserable seats, the first rowin the orchestra was the best they could do for us,and she has to write up the gowns. She’san awfully nice girl, and she has a little trick ofkeeping her copy out of sight, so the people in thehouse never would catch on; would you think me verybold,”—and with this he looked updirectly at Annabel—“if I asked youto give that place in your box to her?”

He was graciously assured it would make Mr. Banks“easy” if they both joined the party,and Annabel suggested that he bring the Society Editorto dinner, “so as to get acquainted” beforethe opera. All of which was speedily arrangedby telephone. Miss Atkins accepted with pleasure.

The dinner was a complete success; so complete thatthe orchestra was concluding the overture when theyarrived at the theater. A little flurry ran throughthe body of the house when Annabel appeared. Mrs.Feversham in the opposite box raised her lorgnette.

“I wonder who they are,” she said.“Why, the girl in white looks like Miss Atkins,who writes the society news, and there is your reporter,Daniels.”

“Other man is Lucky Banks; stunning woman inpink must be his wife.” Frederic, havingsettled in his chair and eased his lame knee, focussedhis own glasses.

“George, Marcia,” he exclaimed, “doyou see that necklace? Nuggets, straight fromthe sluices of the Annabel, I bet. Nuggets strungwith emeralds, and each as big as they grow.I suppose that chain is what you call barbarous, butI rather like it.”

“It is fit for a queen,” admitted Marcia.“One of those barbarian queens we read about.No ordinary woman could wear it, but it seems madefor her throat.” And she added, droppingher lorgnette to turn her calculating glance on herbrother’s face, “Every woman her price.”

Frederic laughed shortly. The purplish flushdeepened in his cheeks, and his eyes rested on BeatrizWeatherbee. She was seated in the front of thebox with Elizabeth, and as she leaned forward a little,stirred by the passionate cry of the violins, herprofile was turned to him.

“The price doesn’t cut as much figureas you think,” he said.

Then the curtain rose. Tarquina was a marvelousCarmen. The Society Editor, who had taken hernotebook surreptitiously from a silk evening bag and,under cover of a chiffon scarf, commenced to recordthe names and gowns of important personages, got nofarther than the party in the opposite box duringthe first act. But she made amends in the intermission.It was then a smile suddenly softened her firm mouth,and she introduced Annabel to her columns with thisitem.

“Noticeable among the out of town guests wereMr. and Mrs. John Henry Banks, who entertained a boxparty, following a charming dinner at the New Washington.Mrs. Banks, a recent bride, was handsomely gowned inpink chiffon over messaline, and wore a unique necklaceof nuggets which were gathered from her husband’smine near Iditarod, Alaska. The gold pieces werelinked lengthwise, alternating with single emeralds,and the pendant was formed of three slender nuggets,each terminating in a matched diamond and emerald.”

While Geraldine wrote this, Frederic Morganstein madehis way laboriously, with the aid of a crutch, aroundto the box. “How do do, Miss Atkins,”he said. “Hello, Daniels! Well, Mr.Banks, how are you? Greatest Carmen ever sungin this theater, isn’t it? Now, keep yourseat. I find it easier to stand. Just camefor a minute to be presented to—your wife.”

His venture carried. The little man, rising,said with conscious pride: “Mrs. Banks,allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Morganstein.He’s the man that holds the option on the Annabel.And this is Miss Purdy, Mr. Morganstein; Miss LucilePurdy of Sedgewick-Wilson’s. I see you knowthe rest of the bunch.”

“I guess it’s up to me to apologize, Mrs.Banks,” said Frederic, heavily humorous.“I wouldn’t believe my sister, Mrs. Feversham,when she told me there were some smart women in thoseAlaska towns.” He paused, laughing, whilehis glance moved from Annabel’s ironical mouthto her superb shoulders and rested on the nugget chain;then he said: “From that interview of yoursin tonight’s Press, Mr. Banks, there isn’tmuch the country can’t produce.”

“Likely not,” responded the little manquickly. “But my wife was an Oregon girl.We were engaged, my, yes, long before I saw Alaska.And lately she’s been living around HesperidesVale. She’s got some fine orchard propertyover there, in her own right.”

“Is that so?” Frederic’s speculativelook returned to Annabel’s face. “HesperidesVale. That’s in the new reclamation country,east of the mountains, isn’t it? I wasintending to motor through that neighborhood whenthis accident stopped me and put an end to the trip.They are turning out some fine apples in that valley,I understand. But it’s curtain time.Awfully glad I’ve met you; see you again.Lend me your shoulder, will you, Daniels—aroundto my box?”

While they were crossing the foyer, he said:“That enlargement came out fine; you must runup to my office, while it’s there to-morrow,to see it. And that was a great write-up yougave Lucky Banks. It was yours, wasn’tit? Thought so. Bought a hundred copies.Mrs. Feversham is going to take ’em east todistribute in Washington. Double blue-pencilledone, ’specially for the President.”

Jimmie smiled, blushing. “That’smore than I deserve, but I’m afraid, even ifit reaches his hands, he won’t take the timeto read it.”

“You leave that to Mrs. Feversham,” repliedMorganstein. “Saw that little scoop, too,about Tisdale. He’s the closest oyster onrecord.”

“The trouble was,” said Jimmie wisely,“he started that Indian story and nobody thoughtto interrupt with more coal questions.”

“You mean he told that yarn purposely to headus off?”

“That’s the way it seemed to me afterwards.He spun it out, you know; it lasted to Bremerton,where I got off. But it was interesting; the bestI ever heard, and I took it all down, word for word.It was little use, though. The chief gave onelook at my bunch of copy and warned me, for the lasttime, the paper wasn’t publishing any novels.What I had gone aboard the Aquila for was towrite up her equipment and, incidentally, to pickup Hollis Tisdale’s views on Alaska coal.”

They had reached the entrance to the Morganstein box;the orchestra was playing again, the curtain beganto rise on the second act, and Daniels hurried backto his place. But during the next intermission,an usher brought the young reporter a note. Itwas written concisely on a business card, but Jimmieread it through slowly a second time before he handedit to the Society Editor.

“Mrs. Feversham wants to see that story,”so it ran. “Leave it at my office in themorning. She may take it east with her. Knowssome magazine people who are going to feature Alaskaand the Northwest.”

After a thoughtful moment Miss Atkins returned thecard to Jimmie. “Is it the Indian story?”she asked.

Daniels nodded, watching her face. His smoulderingexcitement was ready to flame. “They willread it for Mrs. Feversham,”—Geraldine’svoice trembled slightly—“and theywill take it. It’s a magazine story.They ought to pay you handsomely. It’sthe best thing you ever wrote.”

Marcia Feversham saw possibilities in that story.Indeed, writing Jimmie from Washington, she calledit a little masterpiece. There was no doubt itwould be accepted somewhere, though he must expectto see it cut down considerably, it was so long.Then, presumably to facilitate the placing of themanuscript, she herself went over it with exceedingcare, revising with her pencil, eliminating wholeparagraphs, and finally fixing the end short of severalpages. In the copy which her husband’s stenographerprepared, the original was reduced fully a third.After that it mellowed for an interval in Marcia’sdrawer.

At the close of November, it was announced that StuartFoster, the junior defendant in the first “Conspiracyto defraud the Government” trial, was weather-boundin Alaska. This, taken in consideration with theserious illness of Tisdale, on whom the prosecutionrelied for technical testimony, resulted in settingthe case for hearing the last week in the followingMarch. It was at this time, while Hollis was lyingunconscious and in delirium at a hospital, that hisgreat wealth began to be exploited. Everywhere,when inquiries were made as to his health, fabulousstatements followed about the Aurora. To mentionthe mine was like saying “Open Sesame!”Then, finally, it was whispered and repeated withconviction by people who “wouldn’t havebelieved it of Hollis Tisdale” at the beginning,that he had defrauded the widow of his dead partner—whohad made the discovery and paid for it with his life—ofher share.

Then, at last, early in December, Jimmie’s masterpiecewas forwarded to a new magazine in New York.

“Dear Mr. Sampson;—”so Marcia wrote—

“Here is a story of Western life that I believewill be of interest to you. The incident actuallyoccurred. The man who killed the Indian child,and who amused my brother’s guests with the storywhile we were cruising lately on the Aquila,was Hollis Tisdale of the Geographical Survey.He is probably the best known figure in Alaska, theowner of the fabulously rich Aurora mine. Hispartner, who made the discovery, paid for it withhis life, and there is a rumor that his wife, who shouldhave a half interest, is penniless.

“Mr. Tisdale will he a leading witness for theGovernment in the pending Alaska coal cases.Strange—is it not?—since a criminalis barred from testifying in a United States court.

“The last issue of your magazine was most attractive.Enclosed are lists of two thousand names and my checkto cover that many sample copies of the number inwhich the story is published. March would be opportune.Of course, while I do not object to any use you maycare to make of this information, I trust I shallbe spared publicity.

“Very truly,

“MARCIA FEVERSHAM.”

CHAPTER XXI

FOSTER’S HOUR

Frederic Morganstein did not wait until spring toopen his villa. The furnishings were completed,even to the Kodiak and polar-bear rugs, in time toentertain a house-party at Christmas. Marcia,who came home for the event, arrived early enoughto take charge of the final preparations, but theideas that gave character to the lavish decorationswere Beatriz Weatherbee’s. She it was whosuggested the chime of holly bells with tongues ofred berries, hung by ropes of cedar from the vaultedroof directly over the stage; and saw the two greatscarlet camellias that had been coaxed into full bloomspecially for the capitalist placed at either endof the footlights, while potted poinsettias and smallmadrona trees, brought in from the bluffs above thegrounds, finished the scheme with the effect of anold mission garden. Then there were a hundredmore poinsettias disposed of, without crowding, onthe landings and inside the railing of the gallery,with five hundred red carnations arranged with Oregongrape and fern in Indian baskets to cap the balustrade.To one looking up from the lower hall, they had theappearance of quaint jardiniere.

There was not too much color. December, in thePuget Sound country, means the climax of the wet seasonwhen under the interminable curtain of the rain, dawnseems to touch hands with twilight. It was hardlyfour o’clock that Christmas eve when the Aquilaarrived with the guests from Seattle, but the villalights were on. A huge and resinous backlog, sendingbroad tongues of flame into the cavernous throat ofthe fireplace, gave to the illumination a ruddier,flickering glow. To Foster, who was the firstto reach the veranda, Foster who had been so longaccustomed to faring at Alaska road-houses, to makinghis own camp, on occasion, with a single helper inthe frosty solitudes, that view through the Frenchwindow must have seemed like a scene from the ArabianNights. Involuntarily he stopped, and suddenlythe luxurious interior became a setting for one livingfigure. Elizabeth was there, arranging trifleson a Christmas tree; and Mrs. Feversham, seated ata piano, was playing a brilliant bolero; but the onewoman he saw held the center of the stage. Hersparkling face was framed in a mantilla; a camellia,plucked from one of the flowering shrubs, was tuckedin the lace above her ear, and she was dancing withcastanets in the old mission garden.

The next moment Frederic passed him and threw openthe door with his inevitable “Bravo!”And instantly the music ceased; Marcia started to herfeet; the dancer pulled off her mantilla, and the flowerdropped from her hair.

“Go on! Encore!” he laughed.“My, but you’ve got that cachucha downto a science; bred, though, I guess, in your littleSpanish feet. You’d dance all the sensea man has out of his head.”

“That’s the reason none of us heard theAquila whistle,” said Marcia, comingforward. “Beatriz promised to dance to-night,in a marvelous yellow brocade that was her great-grandmother’s,and we were rehearsing; but she looked so like a nun,masquerading, in that gray crepe de Chine, I almostforgot the accompaniment. Why, Mr. Foster!How delightful you were able to get home for Christmas.”

“I am fortunate,” he answered, smiling.“The ice caught me in the Yukon, but I mushedthrough to Fairbanks and came on to the coast by stage.I just made the steamer, and she docked alongsidethe Aquila not fifteen minutes before she sailed.Mr. Morganstein brought me along to hear my report.”

“I guess we are all glad to have you home forChristmas,” said Elizabeth.

She moved on with her sister to meet the other guestswho were trooping into the hall, and Foster foundhimself taking Mrs. Weatherbee’s hand. Hisown shook a little, and suddenly he was unable to sayany of the friendly, solicitous things he had foundit so easy to express to these other people, afterhis long absence; only his young eyes, searching herface for any traces of care or anxiety the seasonmay have left, spoke eloquently. Afterwards,when the greetings were over, and the women trailedaway to their rooms, he saw he had forgotten to giveher a package which he had carried up from the Aquila,and hurried to overtake her at the foot of the stairs.

“It was brought down by messenger from VivianCourt for you,” he explained, “just aswe were casting off, and I took charge of it.There is a letter, you see, which the clerk has tuckedunder the string.”

The package was a florist’s carton, wide anddeep, with the name Hollywood Gardens printed acrossthe violet cover, but the letter was postmarked Washington,D.C. “Violets!” she exclaimed softly,“’when violet time is gone.’”

Her whole lithe body seemed to emanate a subdued pleasure,and settling the box, unopened, in the curve of herarm, she started up the staircase. Foster, lookingup, caught the glance she remembered to send from thegallery railing. Her smile was radiant.

She did not turn on the electric switch when she closedher door; the primrose walls reflected the light fromthe great plate-glass window, with the effect of candleglow. She put the box on a table near the casem*ntand laid the letter aside to lift the lid. Theperfume of violets rose in her face like liberatedincense. The box was filled with them; buncheson bunches. She bent her cheek to feel the cooltouch of them; inhaled their fragrance with deep,satisfying breaths. Presently she found the florist’senvelope and in it Tisdale’s card. And sheread, written under the name in a round, plain woman’shand, “This is to wish you a Merry Christmasand let you know I have not forgotten the project.”

The sparkle went out of her face. After a momentshe picked up the letter and compared the addresswith the writing on the card. It was the sameand, seating herself by the window, she broke the seal.When she had read the first line under the superscription,she stopped to look at the signature. It wasKatherine Purdy. She turned back and began again:

“My dear Mrs. Weatherbee:

“I am the night nurse on Mr. Tisdale’sward. He dictated the message on his card tome, and I learned your address through ordering theviolets of the Seattle florist for him. It setme wondering whether he has ever let you know howdesperate things were with him. He is the mostunselfish man I ever saw, and the bravest that evercame on this floor. The evening he arrived thesurgeons advised amputating his hand—itwas a case of blood-poisoning—but he said,’No, I am ready to take the risk; that righthand is more than half of me, my better half.’He could joke, even then. And when the infectionspread to the arm, it was the same. After thatit was too late to operate; just a question of endurance.And he could endure all right. My, but he waspatient! I wish you could have seen him, as Idid, lying here hour after hour, staring at the ceiling,asking for nothing, when every nerve in his body musthave been on fire. But he won through. Heis lying here still, weak and pale enough, but safe.

“Maybe I seem impertinent, and I suppose I amyoung and foolish, but I don’t care; I wouldn’tbe hard as nails, like some in this clinic, if itwas to cost me my diploma. I came from the Pacificwest—I am going back there as soon as Igraduate—and a girl from there never canlearn to bottle her feelings till she looks like agraven image. Besides, I know I am writing toa western woman. But I want to say right herehe never made a confidant of me, never said one word,intentionally, about you, but there were nights whenhis temperature was running from a hundred and fourdegrees that he got to talking some. Most of thetime he was going all over that terrible trip to findpoor Mr. Weatherbee, and once, when he was huntingbirds along some glacier, he kept hearing David singingand calling him. Again he was just having thebest, quiet little visit with him. My, how heloved that man! And when it wasn’t David,it was you. ’I know you couldn’tmarry a man like Morgan,’ he said. ’Youmay think so, but you will not when the time comes.’And once it was, ’Beatrice, Beatrice, in spiteof everything I can’t help believing in you.’Then one night, his worst before the crisis, he seemedto be helping you through some awful danger, it wasa storm I think, and there were wild beasts and mountains,and at last when it was all over, he said quietly:’You do owe your life to me, but I shall neverhold you to the debt; that would be too monstrous.’And a little later it was, ’Head high, hold fast,it will be a stiff fight, soldier. My dear, my

dear, do you think I don’t know how near youcame to loving me?’ I guess you know how he saidthat. There are certain tones in his voice thatsink straight to the bottom of your heart; I couldn’tkeep from crying. And it seems to me that if youreally knew how much he thought of you, and how sickhe had been, and how he has wanted you, nothing couldkeep you from packing up and coming straight to Washington.I know I should. I could go anywhere, throughAlaska or the Great Sahara, it wouldn’t matterwhich, for a man, if there is one in this world, whocould love me that well.”

Beatriz Weatherbee folded the letter and replacedit in the envelope. The action was mechanical,and she sat twisting it with a kind of silent emphasis,looking out into the thick atmosphere. A dashof hail struck the window; the plate glass grew opaque.Then, suddenly, she lifted her arms to the table anddropped her face; her body shook. It was as thoughshe had come at last to her blank wall; the inevitableshe had so persistently evaded was upon her; therewas no escape.

Presently some one knocked. And instantly herintrepid spirit was up, on guard. She sat erectand pressed her handkerchief swiftly to her eyes.Then Marcia Feversham opened the door and, findingthe button, flashed on the lights.

“Why, Beatriz,” she exclaimed. “Areyou here in the dark? You must have fallen asleepin your chair.”

“And dreaming.” She rose, shadingher eyes from the sudden glare. “But itwas a wretched dream, Marcia; I am glad you wakenedme. Where is Elizabeth?”

“Making Frederic’s co*cktail. He neededa bracer to go through a business meeting with StuartFoster; but she will be here directly. I thought,since we are to share your rooms, we had better dressearly to be out of the way. And I sent Celestein to the Hallidays; Elizabeth can do everything forme.”

“Much better than Celeste,” she agreed.“And while you are busy, I shall go for a bracinglittle walk.”

“A walk?” echoed Marcia in astonishment.“Why, it’s storming. Hear that!”

Another burst of hail struck the window. Mrs.Weatherbee turned, listening, and so avoiding Marcia’spenetrating eyes, dropped her hand from her own.“I have my raincoat and cap,” she said,“and a smart brush with the wind will clearmy head of cobwebs.”

With this she hurriedly smoothed the letter and laidit between the pages of a book; lifting the violetsfrom the table, she carried them out of the steam-heatedapartment to the coolness of the sleeping-porch.Mrs. Feversham followed to the inner room and stoodwatching her through the open door.

“Violets!” she exclaimed. “AtChristmas! From wherever did they come?”

“From Hollywood Gardens,” she respondedalmost eagerly. “Isn’t it marveloushow they make the out-of-season flowers bloom?But this flurry of hail is the end of the storm, Marcia;the clouds are breaking, and it is light enough tosee the path above the pergola. I shall have timeto go as far as the observatory.”

Before she finished speaking, she was back in theroom and hurrying on her raincoat. Mrs. Fevershambegan to lay out various toilet accessories, but presently,when the gallery door closed behind Beatriz, she walkedto the table near the plate-glass window and pickedup the book. It was a morocco-bound edition ofOmar’s Rubaiyat, which she had often noticedat the apartment in Vivian Court, yet she studiedthe title deliberately, and also the frontispiece,before she turned to the pages that enclosed the letter.But it was natural that, holding both her brother’sand Beatriz Weatherbee’s interests so at heart,her scruples should be finally dispelled, and shelaid the volume face down, to keep the place, whileshe read the night nurse’s unclinical report.After that she went to the box of violets in the sleeping-porchand found Tisdale’s message, and she had slippedthe card carefully back and stood looking meditativelyoff through the open casem*nt when her sister enteredfrom the gallery. At the same time Mrs. Weatherbeeappeared on the path above the pergola. But shehad not escaped to the solitude she so evidently haddesired, for Foster accompanied her. When theystopped to look down on the villa and the little covewhere the Aquila rocked at her moorings, Marciawaved her hand gaily, then turned to the brilliantroom.

Elizabeth met her at the threshold. “Whathas sent Beatriz out in this weather?” she asked.

“Why, you see,”—Marcia answeredwith a little backward gesture to the figures on theslope,—“since this is Stuart Foster’sfirst visit to the villa, he must be personally conductedthrough the park.”

“She tried her best to discourage him.They were standing at the side entrance when I camethrough the dining-room. She warned him firstimpressions were everything and that it would be blowinga gale at the observatory; besides, if Frederic waswaiting, she would not be responsible.”

“But, ‘come what will, what may’”—andmeeting her sister’s look, Marcia’s eyesgathered brilliancy—“the man musthave his hour.”

“That is what he told her. He said thesyndicate had had his time and brains, he might aswell add his soul, for three months steady, and nowhe was entitled to his hour. I wonder—”Elizabeth’s even voice wavered—“Doyou think she will refuse him?”

“I haven’t a doubt.” And Marciacrossed to the dressing-table and began to removethe shell pins from her glossy black hair.

“She seemed so changed,” pursued Elizabethfollowing. “So, well, anxious, depressed,and you know how gay she was at the time the Aquilacame. And I happened to be near them when westarted up-stairs. It was plain she was gladto see him. But he gave her a package that hadbeen forwarded from Vivian Court. There was aletter; it may have been from Lucky Banks.”

Marcia was silent. She lifted her brush and sweptit the length of her unbound hair.

“If it was,” resumed Elizabeth, “ifhe has experimented far enough and wants to forfeitthat bonus, I am going to buy that piece of Wenatcheedesert myself. The Novelty mills will pay me enoughfor my tide lands.”

“No, Elizabeth. You will hold on to yourtide lands, every foot.” Mrs. Fevershampaused to watch her sister’s eyes capitulateunder the batteries of her own, then said: “Butyou need not worry; Frederic will probably take thatoption off Lucky Banks’ hands. Now, pleasedo my puffs; high, you know, so as to use the paradiseaigrette.”

Foster, too, had felt the change in Mrs. Weatherbee’smood since he left her at the foot of the staircase;the exhilaration that had been so spontaneous then,that had seemed to expand to take him in, was now somanifestly forced. And presently it came overhim she was making conversation, saying all theseneutral things about the villa and grounds to safeguardthe one vital thing she feared to have him touch.

“Tell me about yourself,” he interruptedat last. “You don’t know how I’veworried about you; how I’ve blamed myself allthese slow months for leaving you as I did. Ofcourse you understood the company decided to sendme in to the Iditarod suddenly, with only a few hours’notice, and to reach the interior while the summertrails were passable I had to take the steamer sailingthat day. I tried to find you, but you were outof town; so I wrote.”

“I received the letter,” she respondedquickly. “I want to thank you for it; itwas very pleasant indeed to feel the security of afriend in reserve. But you had written if therewas anything you could do, or if, any time, I shouldneed you to let you know, and there was no reason to.I saw I had allowed you to guess the state of my finances;they had been a little depressed, I confess, but soonafter you sailed, I gave an option on that desertland east of the Cascades and was paid a bonus of threethousand dollars.”

“Then Tisdale did take that property off yourhands, after all. I tried to make myself believehe would; but his offer to buy hinged on the practicabilityof that irrigation project.”

“I know. He found it was practicable tocarry it out. But—I gave the optionto Mr. Banks.”

“Lucky Banks,” questioned Foster incredulously,“of Iditarod? Why, he talked of a big farmingscheme in Alaska.”

“I do not know about that. But he had thoughta great deal of David. They had been partners,it seems, in Alaska. Once, in a dreadful blizzard,he almost perished, and David rescued him. Heknew about the project and offered to make the paymentof three thousand dollars to hold the land until hefound out whether the scheme was feasible. I neededthe money very much. There was a debt it wasimperative to close. So I accepted the bonuswithout waiting to let Mr. Tisdale know.”

Foster’s brows clouded. “Well, whyshouldn’t you? Tisdale has himself to blame,if he let his opportunity go.”

There was a silent interval. They had reachedthe brow of the bluff and, coming into the teeth ofthe wind, she dipped her head and ran to gain theshelter of the pavilion. Then, while she gatheredher breath, leaning a little on the parapet and lookingoff to the broad sweep of running sea, Foster said:“It was that debt that worried me up there inthe wilderness. You had referred to it the eveningafter the theater, a week before I went away.You called it a debt of honor. You laughed atthe time, but you warned me it was the hardest kindof debt because an obligation to a friend kept onecontinually paying interest in a hundred small ways.You said it was like selling yourself on a perpetualinstalment plan. That wasn’t the firsttime you had spoken of it, but you seemed to feel thepressure more that night and, afterwards, up therein the north, I got to thinking it over. I blamedmyself for not finding out the truth. I was afraidthe loan was Frederic Morganstein’s.”He paused and drew back a step with a quick upliftof his aggressive chin. “Was it?”he asked.

“Yes.” She drew erect and turnedfrom the parapet to meet his look. “Mynote came into his hands. But I see I must explain.It began in a yearly subscription to the Orthopedichospital; the one, you know, for little deformed children.I was very interested when the movement started; Isang at concerts, danced sometimes you remember, tohelp along the fund. And I endowed a little bed.David always seemed just on the brink of riches inthose days, his letters were full of brilliant predictions,but when the second annual payment fell due, I hadto borrow of Elizabeth. She suggested it.She herself was interested deeper, financially, thanI. All the people we knew, who ever gave to charity,were eager to help the Orthopedic; the ladies at thehead were our personal friends; the best surgeonswere giving their services and time. I hadn’tthe courage to have my subscription discontinued sosoon, and I expected to cancel the debt when I heardagain from David. But the next spring it was thesame; I borrowed again from Elizabeth. Afterthat, when she wanted to apply the sum to the hospitalbuilding fund, Mrs. Feversham advanced the money, andI gave my note. My bed, then, was given to a little,motherless boy. He had the dearest, most trustingsmile and great, dark eyes; the kind that talk toyou. And his father had deserted him. Thatseems incredible; that a man can leave his own child,crippled, ill, unprovided for; but it does happen,sometimes.” She paused to steady her voiceand looked off again from the parapet. “Thesurgeons were greatly interested in the case,”she went on. “They were about to performan unusual operation. All his future dependedon it. So—I let my subscription runon; so much could happen in a year. The operationwas a perfect success, and when the boy was ready togo, one of the Orthopedic women adopted him. Heis the happiest, sturdiest little fellow now.

“At the end of the summer when the note felldue Mrs. Feversham did not care to renew it; she wasgoing to Washington and wished to use the money inNew York. The desert tract was all I had, andwhen Mr. Morganstein planned the motoring trip throughthe mountains and down to Portland, he offered totake a day to look the land over. He did not wantto encumber himself with any more real estate, hesaid, but would advise me on its possibilities forthe market. An accident to the car in SnoqualmiePass obliged him to give up the excursion, and Marciadisposed of the note to him. She said it couldmake little difference to me since her brother waswilling to let the obligation rest until I was readyto meet it. I do not blame her; there are somethings Marcia Feversham and I do not see in the samelight. It isn’t so much through custom andbreeding; it’s the way we were created, boneand spirit.” Her voice broke but she laidher hand on the parapet again with a controlling graspand added evenly, “That is the reason when Mr.Banks came I was so ready to accept his offer.”

“So, that was your debt of honor!” Fosterbegan unsteadily; the words caught in his throat,and for an instant her face grew indistinct throughthe mist he could not keep back from his eyes.“You knew you were traveling on thin ice; thebreak-up was almost on you, yet you handicapped yourselfwith those foundlings. And you never told me.I could have taken over that subscription, I shouldhave been glad of the chance, you must have knownthat, but you allowed me to believe it was a loan tocover personal expenses.”

She met the reproach with a little fleeting smile.“There were times when those accounts pressed,I am going to admit that, in justice to Elizabeth.She always buoyed me through. I have known herintimately for years. We were at Mills Seminarytogether, and even then she was the most dependable,resourceful, generous girl in the school. I nevershould have had the courage to dispose of things—formoney—but she offered to. Once itwas the bracelet that had been my great-grandmother’s;the serpent, you remember, with jewelled scales andfascinating ruby eyes. The Japanese consul boughtit for his wife. And once it was that dagger thefirst American Don Silva wore. The design wasMoorish, you know, with a crescent in the hilt ofunique stones. The collector who wanted it promisedto give me the opportunity to redeem it if ever hewished to part with it, and Elizabeth had the agreementwritten and signed.”

“Like a true Morganstein. But I knew howmuch she thought of you. I used to remind myself,up there in the Iditarod wilderness, that you had herclear, practical sense and executive ability to relyon.”

“That has been my one rare good-fortune; tohave had Elizabeth. Not that I depreciate myother friends,” and she gave Foster another fleetingsmile. “There was Mrs. Brown who in theautumn, when I saw the necessity to give up my apartmentat Vivian Court, asked me to stay in exchange for pianoand dancing lessons. I had often taught her littlegirls for pleasure, they were so sweet and lovable,when they visited in my rooms. Still, afterwards,I learned the suggestion came from Elizabeth.Now you know everything,” she added with determinedgaiety. “And I have had my draught of ozone.We must hurry back, or they will wonder what has becomeof us.”

She turned to the path, and the young engineer followedin silence. He did not know everything; deepin his heart the contradiction burned. Whatevermay have caused her exhilaration at the time the Aquilaarrived, it was not his return, and while her explanationssatisfied him that she was in no immediate financialdistress, he felt that her confidence covered unplumbeddepths she did not wish him to sound.

They had reached the footbridge over the cascade whenhe said abruptly: “After all, I am gladLucky Banks got ahead on the irrigation project.He will find it feasible, if any one can. Hegrew up on an Oregon farm, and what he hasn’tlearned about sluicing in Alaska isn’t worthknowing. It leaves Hollis Tisdale no alternative.”

She turned waiting, with inquiry in her eyes.

“I mean in regard to the Aurora. He hasn’tthe saving grace of an excuse, now, not to conveythat last half interest back to you.”

“I do not want a half interest in the Auroramine.” She drew herself very straight,swaying a little on the balls of her feet. “Youmust not suggest it. I should not accept it eventhrough a United States court. It belongs toMr. Tisdale. He furnished the funds that mademy husband’s prospecting trip possible.And all the gold in Alaska could not repay him for—whathe did. Sometimes, when I think of him aloneon that terrible trail, he stands out more than aman. Epics have been written on less; it was afriendship to be glorified in some great painting orbronze. But then he touched so lightly on hisown part in the story; in the incense he burned toDavid he was obscured.”

Foster stood watching her in surprise. The colorthat the wind had failed to whip back to her cheeksburned now, two brilliant spots; raindrops, or tears,hung trembling on her lashes, and through them flamedthe blue fires of her eyes.

“So,” he said slowly, “so, Tisdaledid hunt you up, after all; and, of course, you hadthe whole hard story from him.”

“I heard him tell it, yes, but he left out aboutthe—wolves.”

“Wolves?” repeated Foster incredulously.“There were no wolves. Why, to be overtakenby a pack, single-handed, on the trail, is the worstthat can happen to a man.”

She nodded. “Mr. Banks told me. Hehad talked with the miners who found him. Itwas terrible.” A great shudder ran throughher body; for a moment she pressed her fingers toher eyes, then she added with difficulty, almost ina whisper: “He was defending David.”

“No, no! Great Scott! But see here,”—Fosterlaid his hand on her arm and drew her on down thepath, “don’t try to tell me any more.I understand. Banks shouldn’t have toldyou. Come, remember Tisdale won through.He’s safe.”

After a silence, she said: “I doubt ifyou know how ill he has been.”

“Tisdale? No, I hadn’t heard.”

“I only learned to-day; and he has been in aWashington hospital all these months. The surgeonsadvised amputating his hand,” she went on witha tremulous breathlessness, “but he refused.He said he would take the risk; that right hand wasmore than half of him, his ‘better half.’”

Involuntarily Foster smiled in recognition of thatdominant note in Tisdale. “But he neverseemed more physically fit than on the night I leftSeattle,” he expostulated. “And thereisn’t a man in Alaska who understands the dangersand the precautions of frostbite better than HollisTisdale does.”

“It was not frost; it was a vicious horse,”she answered. “It happened after you sawhim, on that trip to Wenatchee, while he was leadingthe vixen over a break in the road. We were obligedto spend the night at a wretched way-house, and thehurt became infected.”

Foster stopped. “You were obliged to spendthe night?” he inquired.

“Yes. It happened in this way. Mr.Tisdale had taken the Milwaukee line over the mountains,intending to finish the trip on horseback, to see thecountry, and I, you remember, was motoring throughSnoqualmie Pass with the Morgansteins. His trainbarely missed colliding with our car. Mr. Morgansteinwas injured, and the others took the westbound homewith him, but I decided to board the eastbound andgo on by stage to Wenatchee, to see my desert tract,and return by way of the Great Northern. I foundthe stage service discontinued, so Mr. Tisdale secureda team instead of a saddle-horse, and we drove across.”

“I see.” Foster smiled again.So Tisdale had capitulated on sight. “Isee. You looked the tract over together, yethe hesitated with his offer.”

She did not answer directly. They had reachedthe pergola, and she put out her hand groping, steadyingherself through the shadows. “Mr. Tisdalebelieved at the beginning I was some one else,”she said then. “I was so entirely differentfrom his conception of David Weatherbee’s wife.In the end he offered to finance the project if Iwould see it carried through. I refused.”

“Of course you refused,” responded Fosterquickly. “It was preposterous of him toask it of you. I can’t understand it inTisdale. He was always so broad, so fine, sohead and shoulders above other men, so, well, chivalrousto women. But, meantime, while he hesitated, Bankscame with his offer?”

“Yes. While he was desperately ill in thathospital. I—I don’t know whathe will think of me—when he hears—”she went on with little, steadying pauses. “Itis difficult to explain. So much happened on thatdrive to the Wenatchee valley. In the end, duringan electrical storm, he saved me from a falling tree.What he asked of me was so very little, the weightof a feather, against all I owe him. Still, awoman does not allow even such a man to finance heraffairs; people never would have understood. Besides,how could I have hoped, in a lifetime, to pay the loan?It was the most barren, desolate place; a deep, drygulf shut in by a wicked mountain—you can’timagine—and I told him I never could livethere, make it my home.” They were nearlythrough the pergola; involuntarily she stopped and,looking up at Foster, the light from a Japanese lanternillumined her small, troubled face. “Butin spite of everything,” she went on, “hebelieves differently. To-day his first messagecame from Washington to remind me he had not forgottenthe project. How can I—when he is soill— how can I let him know?”

Foster had had his hour; and, at this final moment,he sounded those hitherto unplumbed depths. “Itwill be all right,” he said steadily; “waituntil you see what Lucky Banks does. You can trusthim not to stand in Tisdale’s way. Anddon’t think I underrate Hollis Tisdale.He is a man in a thousand. No one knows thatbetter than I. And that’s why I am going tohold him to his record.”

CHAPTER XXII

“AS MAN TO MAN”

In January, when Mrs. Feversham returned to Washington,her brother accompanied her as far as Wenatchee.He went prepared to offer Banks as high as five thousanddollars for his option.

At that time the Weatherbee tract was blanketed insnow. It never drifted, because Cerberus shutout the prevailing wind like a mighty door; even thebench and the high ridge beyond lifted above the levelsof the vale smooth as upper floors. Previousto that rare precipitation, gangs of men, put to workon both quarter sections, had removed the sage-brushand planted trees, and the new orchard traced a delicatepattern on the white carpet in rows and squares.Banks had hurried the concrete lining of the basinwalls, and when it became necessary to suspend constructionon the flumes, he saw with satisfaction that the reservoirwould husband the melting snows and so supply temporaryirrigation in the early spring. All the lumberestimates had been included in his orders for buildingmaterial in the autumn, and already the house on thebench showed a tiled roof above its mission walls,while down the gap and midway up the side slope ofCerberus rose the shingled gables of Annabel’shome.

To facilitate the handling of freight, the railroadcompany had laid a siding at the nearest point inHesperides Vale; then, for the convenience of theworkmen, the daily local made regular stops, and thelittle station bore the name of Weatherbee. Later,at the beginning of the year, it had become a post-office,and the Federal building included a general store.Also, at that time, the girders of a new brick blockrose on the adjoining lots, and a sign secured tothe basem*nt wall announced: “This strictlymodern building will be completed about June first.For office and floor space see Henderson Bailey.”

The financier, who had motored up the valley in arented car, noted these indications of an embryo townwith interest.

“Who is Henderson Bailey?” he asked.

And the chauffeur answered with surprise: “Don’tyou know Bailey? Why, he’s the man thatgot in on the ground floor. He owns the heartof Hesperides Vale. That was his apple orchardwe passed, you remember, a few minutes ago. Butthe man who is backing him on that brick block is LuckyBanks of Alaska. They are pulling together, nipand tuck, for Weatherbee.”

“Nip—and Tuck,” repeated Morgansteinthoughtfully. “That reminds me of a youngteam of bays I considered buying last fall, over atNorth Yakima. Rather well named, if you knew’em. But they were a little too gay forSeattle hills and the lady I expected would drive ’em.George, though, they made a handsome showing.A dealer named Lighter owned ’em, and they wonthe blue ribbon for three-year-olds at Yakima and Spokane.”

“I know them,” replied the chauffeur.“They are owned here in the valley now; andLucky Banks’ wife is driving them. You canmeet her most any day speeling down to the Columbiato see her goats.”

“Goats?” queried Frederic.

“Yes, sir. Didn’t you know she usedto keep a flock of Angoras up here? It was herland before she was married. But when Banks turnedup with his pile and started the orchards, the goatshad to go. It wouldn’t have taken thema week to chew up every stick he planted. So shehired a man to winter them down on the Columbia, whereshe could keep an eye on them. Strange,”the chauffeur went on musingly, “what a differenceclothes make in a woman. Nobody noticed her much,only we thought she was kind of touched, when shewas herding those billies by herself up that pocket,but the minute Banks came, she blossomed out; madeus all sit up and take notice. Yes, sir, she’ssure some style. To see her in her up-to-datemotoring-coat, veil to match, cape gloves, and up behindthat team, you’d think the Empress of Indiahad the road.”

“Just what I said first time I saw her,”Morganstein chuckled thickly. “Or I guessit was the Queen of Sheba I called her. Happenedto be grand-opera night, and she wore a necklace madeof some of Banks’ nuggets. George, shecould carry ’em; had the throat and shoulders.It isn’t the clothes that make the difference,my boy; it’s the trick of wearing ’em.I know a slim little thoroughbred, who puts on a plaingray silk like it was cloth of gold. You’dthink she was walking tiptoe to keep it off this darnedold earth. Lord, I’d like to see her inthe real stuff. George, I’ll do it, soon’swe’re married,” and he laughed deeply atthe notion. “I’ll order a cloth ofgold gown direct from Paris, and I’ll set a diamondtiara on her proud little head. Bet it don’tout-sparkle her eyes. Lord, Lord, she’llmake ’em all stare.”

The chauffeur gave the financier a measuring glancefrom the corner of his eye, but he puckered his lipsdiscreetly to cover a grin, and with his head stillco*cked sidewise, looked off to the lifting front ofCerberus, whistling softly Queen Among the Heather.But the tune ceased abruptly and, straightening likean unstrung bow, he swerved the machine out of thethoroughfare and brought it to a stop.

It was not the Empress of India who held the road,but little Banks in his red car. Slackening speed,he shouted back above the noise of the exhaust:“Hello! Is that you, Mr. Morganstein?I guess likely you’re looking for me. ButI can’t stop. I’ve got to catch thelocal for Wenatchee; the eastbound don’t makeour station, and I’m booked for a little runthrough to Washington, D.C.”

“That so?” answered Morganstein thoughtfully.“I came over just to look at this orchard ofyours. See here, wait a minute.” Heunbuttoned his heavy coat and, finding a pocket, drewout a time-card. “You will have a coupleof hours to waste in Wenatchee between trains.Give me half an hour, long enough to show me a bird’s-eyeview of the project—that’s all I wantin this snow and I guarantee to put you in Wenatcheeon time for your eastbound. The road is in goodshape; driver knows his car.”

Banks left his roadster and came over to the largercar. “I’ll risk it since you’vebroke trail,” he said, taking the vacant seatbehind. “But I knew if I took chances withsnow, in this contrary buzz-wagon of mine, she’dlikely skid off the first mean curve.”

Morganstein, laughing, changed his seat for the onebeside the prospector. “It’s likethis, dry and firm as a floor, straight through toWenatchee. These are great roads you have inthis valley; wish we had ’em on the other sidethe range.”

“I sent a scraper up from the station aheadof me,” said Banks. “And, driver,we may as well run up the switchback to the house.It’s level there, with room to turn. Andit will give you the chance to see the whole layoutbelow,” he went on, explaining to Morganstein.“The property on this side the mountain belongsto my wife, but we ain’t living here yet; weare stopping with folks down by the station. Likelywe’ll move, soon’s I get back from mytrip. That is, if the boys get busy. Seem’sif I have to keep after some of them all the time.To-day it’s the lathers. I’ve gotto stop, going through Weatherbee, to tell my wifeto have an eye on them. They get paid by thebundle, and they told me this morning lathe would runshort before they was through. I knew I had orderedan extra hundred on the architect’s figgers,but I didn’t say anything. Just prospected’round and came back unexpected, and caughtone of them red-handed. He was tucking a bunchbetween the ceiling and the upper floor, without evencutting the string. I made them rip off the lathe,and there they were stored thick, a full bundle to’bout every three they’d nailed on.”

“That’s the way,” commented Morganstein,“every man of ’em will do you, if he seesa chance. Mrs. Banks will have to keep both eyesopen, if you are leaving it to her. But it willbe compensation to her, I guess, driving those baysover from the station every day. Handsomest teamin Washington. I’ll bet,” and heturned his narrow eyes suddenly on Banks, “Lighterheld you up for all they were worth.”

“The team belongs to Hollis Tisdale,”answered Banks. “He bought them at Kittitaslast fall and drove them through. They were inthe valley when I came, and he asked me to look afterthem while he was east. My wife exercises them.She understands horses, my, yes. One of thosecolts had a mean trick of snapping at you if you touchedthe bit, but she cured him complete. And shetook such a shine to that team I thought likely they’ddo for a Christmas present. Tisdale told me inthe fall if I had a good chance, to sell, so I wroteand made him an offer. But his answer never cametill last night. A nurse at the hospital in Washingtonwrote for him; he had been laid up with a case ofblood-poison all winter, and it started from a nipthat blame’ colt gave him on the trip from Kittitas.He refused my price because, seeing’s the teamwasn’t safe for a full-sized man to drive, itwent against his conscience to let them go to a lady.”

“He was right,” said Morganstein.“George, that was a lucky escape. I waswithin an ace of buying that team myself. ButI put down Tisdale’s sickness to frostbite;often goes that way with a man in the north.”

“Sure; it does.” Banks paused, whilehis glance fell to the empty fingers of his rightglove. “But that colt, Nip, gets the creditthis time. It happened while Hollis was tryingto lead him over a break in the road. He saidit didn’t amount to anything, the night I sawhim before he left Seattle, but he had the hand bandaged,and I’d ought to have known it was giving himtrouble.”

Morganstein pondered a silent moment, then said slowly,“Kittitas is close enough to be a suburb ofEllensburg, and that’s where the Wenatchee stagemeets the Milwaukee Puget Sound train. Friendof mine made the trip about that time; didn’tsay anything of a break in the road.”

“There’s just one road through,”answered Banks, “and that’s the one theyused for hauling from the Northern Pacific line whilethis railroad was building. Likely there wasa stage then, but it ain’t running now.”

Frederic pondered again, then a gleam of intelligenceflashed in his eyes. “Did Tisdale makethat trip from Kittitas alone?” he asked.

Banks shook his head. “He didn’tmention any passengers. Likely it was havingto drive himself, after his hand was hurt, that didthe mischief. Anyhow, he’s had a closecall; fought it out sooner than let the doctors takehis hand; and he never let one of us boys know.That was just the way with Dave Weatherbee; they wasa team. But I’m going to look him up, now,soon’s I can. He had to get that nurse towrite for him. Likely there ain’t a manaround to tend to his business; he might be all outof money.”

“I guess, with the Aurora mine to back him,you needn’t worry.”

The little man shook his head. “It willtake more security than the Aurora to open a bankaccount in Washington, D.C. I ain’t sayinganything against Dave Weatherbee’s strike,”he added quickly, “but, when you talk Alaskato those fellows off there in the east, they get coldfeet.”

Morganstein looked off, chuckling his appreciation.They had arrived at the final curve; on one side,rising from the narrow shoulder, stood Annabel’snew home, while on the other the mountain sloped abruptlyto Weatherbee’s vale. Banks pointed outthe peach orchard on the bench at the top of the pocket;the rim of masonry, pushing through the snow, thatmarked the reservoir; the apple tract below.

“I see,” said Frederic, “and thismountain we are on must be the one Mrs. Weatherbeenoticed, looking down from that bench. Remindedher of some kind of a beast!”

Banks nodded. “It looked like a cross betweena cougar and a husky in the fall. One place youcatch sight of two heads. But she’ll betamer in the spring, when things begin to grow.There’s more peaches, set in narrow terraceswhere the road cross-cuts down there, and all thesesmall hummocks under the snow are grapes. It’swarm on this south slope and sheltered from the frosts;the vines took right ahold; and, with fillers of strawberrieshurrying on the green, Dave’s wife won’tknow the mountain by summer, my, no.”

“Presume,” said the financier abruptly,“you expect to supply both tracts with waterfrom those springs?”

“My, no. This quarter section belongs tomy wife, and it’s up to me to make the waterconnections safe for her. I can do it.”Banks set his lips grimly, and his voice shrilleda higher key. “Yes, sir, even if I haveto tunnel through from the Wenatchee. But I thinklikely I’ll tap the new High Line and rig aflume with one of these new-style electric pumps.And my idea would be to hollow out a nice little reservoir,with maybe a fountain, right here on this shoulderalongside the house, and let a sluice and spillwaysfollow the road down. There’d be water handythen, and to spare, in case Dave’s springs happento pinch out.”

Morganstein’s glance moved slowly over the sectionsof road cross-cutting the mountain below, and on upthe vale to the distant bench. Presently he said:“What are you building over there? A barn,or is it a winery for your grapes?”

“It’s neither,” answered Banks withsharp emphasis. “It’s a regular,first-class house. Dave Weatherbee was countingon striking it rich in Alaska when he drew the plans.The architect calls it California-Spanish style.The rooms are built around a court, and we are pipingfor the fountain now.”

Frederic grew thoughtful. Clearly an offer offive thousand dollars for Lucky Banks’ optionon the Weatherbee tract was inadequate. Aftera moment he said: “What is it going tocost you?”

“Well, sir, counting that house complete, withoutthe furniture, seven thousand would be cheap.”

After that the financier was silent. He lookedat his watch, as they motored down Cerberus, considering,perhaps, the probabilities of a telegram reachingMarcia; but he did not make the venture when theyarrived in Wenatchee, and the nearest approach he madeto that offer was while he and Banks were waitingat the station for their separate trains. Theywere seated together on a bench at the time, and Frederic,having lighted a cigar, drew deeply as though he hopedto gather inspiration. Then he edged closer and,dropping his heavy hand on the little prospector’sshoulder, said thickly: “See here, tellme this, as man to man, if you found both those tractstoo big to handle, what would you take for your optionon the Weatherbee property?”

And Banks, edging away to the end of the seat, answeredsharply: “I can handle both; my optionain’t for sale.”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DAY OF PUBLICATION

It was a mild evening, the last in February, and Jimmie,who had received two copies of the March issue ofSampson’s Magazine direct from the publisher,celebrated the event by taking the Society Editor canoeingon Lake Washington. Instead of helping with thebow paddle, of which she was fully capable, Miss Atkinssettled against the pillows facing him, with the masterpiecein her lap. The magazine was closed, showing hisname among the specially mentioned on the cover, butshe kept the place with her finger. She had apretty hand, and it was adorned by the very best diamondthat could be bought at Hanson’s for one hundredand fifty dollars.

She waited, watching Jimmie’s stroke, whilethe Peterboro slipped out from the boathouse and rosequartering to the swells of a passing launch.Her hat was placed carefully behind her in the bow,and the light wind roughened her hair, which was partedon the side, into small rings on her forehead.It gave her an air of boyish camaraderie, and the youngauthor’s glance, moving from the magazine andthe ring, swept her whole trim figure to the mannish,flat-heeled little shoes, and returned to her face.“This is my red-letter day,” he said.

“It’s the proudest in my life,”answered Geraldine, and the way in which she saidit made him catch his breath.

“It makes me feel almost sure enough to cutloose from the Press and go into business formyself.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t be in a hurry to leavethe paper, if I were you,” she replied, “eventhough Sampson’s has asked to see moreof your work.”

“It isn’t the magazine opening I am considering;though I shall do what I can in that way, of course.But what would you think of an offer to take fullcharge of a newspaper east of the Cascades? It’sso.” He paused, nodding in emphasis tothe confirmation. “The letter is there inmy coat pocket. It’s from Bailey—youremember that young fellow I told you about who madean investment in the Wenatchee valley. Well, itseems they have incorporated a town on some of thatproperty. His city lots are selling so fast hehas raised the price three times. And they haveput him up for mayor. He says it’s mightyhard to run an election without a newspaper, and evenif it’s a late start, we will be ready next time.And the valley needs advertising; people in the eastdon’t know where Wenatchee apples grow.You understand. He will finance a newspaper—orrather he and Lucky Banks are going to—ifI will take the management. He is holding officesnow, in a brick block that is building, until he hearsfrom me.”

“Is it in Hesperides Vale, where the Bankseslive?”

“Yes. The name of the town is Weatherbee.And I heard from that little miner, too.”Jimmie paused, smiling at the recollection. “Itwas a kind of supplement to Bailey’s letter.He thought likely I could recommend some young fellowto start a newspaper. A married man was preferred,as it was a new camp and in need of more ladies.”

Geraldine laughed, flushing softly, “Isn’tthat just like him?” she said. “Ican see his eyes twinkling.”

“It sounds rather good to me,” Jimmiewent on earnestly. “I have confidence inBailey. And it was mother’s dream, you know,to see me establish a paper over there; it would meansomething to me to see it realized—but—doyou think you could give up your career to help methrough?”

Geraldine was silent, and Jimmie leaned forward alittle, resting on his stroke. “I knowI am not worth it, but so far as that goes, neitherwas my father; yet mother gave up everything to backhim. She kept him on that desert homestead thefirst five years, until he proved up and got his patent,and he might have stayed with it, been rich to-day,if she had lived.”

“Of course I like you awfully well,” saidGeraldine, flushing pinkly, “and it isn’tthat I haven’t every confidence in you, but—Imust take a little time to decide.”

A steamer passed, and Jimmie resumed his strokes,mechanically turning the canoe out of the trough.Geraldine opened the magazine and began to scan theeditor’s note under the title. “Why,”she exclaimed tremulously, “did you know aboutthis? Did you see the proofs?”

“No. What is the excitement? Isn’tit straight?”

“Listen!” Miss Atkins sat erect; the cushiondropped under her elbow; her lips closed firmly betweenthe sentences she read.

“’This is one of those true stories strangerthan fiction. This man, who wantonly murdereda child in his path and told of it for the amusem*ntof a party of pleasure-seekers aboard a yacht on PugetSound, who should be serving a prison sentence to-day,yet never came to a trial, is Hollis Tisdale of theGeographical Survey; a man in high favor with theadministration and the sole owner of the fabulouslyrich Aurora mine in Alaska. The widow of hispartner who made the discovery and paid for it withhis life is penniless. Strange as it may seem—forthe testimony of a criminal is not allowable in aUnited States court—Hollis Tisdale hasbeen called as a witness for the Government in thepending Alaska coal trials!”

The Society Editor met Jimmie’s appalled gaze.“It sounds muckraky,” she commented, stilltremulously. “But these new magazines haveto do something to get a hold. This is just toattract public attention.”

“They’ll get that, when Tisdale bringsa suit for libel. Hope he will do it, and thatthe judgment will swamp them. They must have gothis name from Mrs. Feversham.”

“It looks political,” said Geraldine conciliatingly,“as though they were striking through him atthe administration.”

“Go on,” said Jimmie recklessly.“Let’s have it over with.”

And Geraldine launched quickly into the story.It had been mercilessly and skilfully abridged.All those undercurrents of feeling, which Jimmie hadfaithfully noted, had been suppressed; and of DavidWeatherbee, whom Tisdale had made the hero of theadventure, there was not a word.

“Great guns!” exclaimed the unfortunateauthor at the finish. “Great—guns!”

But Geraldine said nothing. She only closed themagazine and pushed it under the pillow out of sight.There was a long silence. A first star appearedand threw a wavering trail on the lake. Jimmie,dipping his paddle mechanically, turned the Peterborointo this pale pathway. The pride and elationhad gone out of his face. His mouth drooped disconsolately.

“And you called this your proudest day,”he broke out at last.

An unexpected gentleness crept over the Society Editor’scountenance. “It would be great to helpcreate a city,” she said then. “Tostart with it ourselves, at the foundations and grow.”And she added very softly, with a little break inher voice: “I’ve decided to resignand go to Weatherbee.”

CHAPTER XXIV

SNOWBOUND IN THE ROCKIES AND “FIT AS A MOOSE”

Tisdale, who was expected to furnish important testimonyin the Alaska coal cases, had been served officialnotice at the hospital during Banks’ visit.The trial was set for the twenty-fourth of March andin Seattle.

The prospector had found him braced up in bed, andgoing over the final proof of his Matanuska report,with the aid of a secretary. “You bettergo slow, Hollis,” he said. “You arelooking about as reliable as your shadow. Likelythe first puff of a wind would lift you out of sight.My, yes. But I just ran over to say hello, andlet you know if it’s the expense that’shurrying you, there’s a couple of thousand inthe Wenatchee bank I can’t find any use for,now the water-works are done and the house. Youcan have it well’s not. It ain’tdrawing any interest.” And Tisdale had takenthe little man’s hand between both his own andcalled him “true gold.” But he wasin no pressing need of money, though it was possiblehe might delay in refunding those sums Banks had advancedon the project. He was able enough to be on hisfeet, but these doctors were cautious; it might beanother month before he would be doing a man’swork.

He started west, allowing himself ample time to reachSeattle by the fifteenth of March, when Banks’option expired, but the fourteenth found him, afterthree days of delay by floods, snowbound in the Rockies.The morning of the fifteenth, while the rotaries werestill clearing track ahead, he made his way back afew miles to the nearest telegraph station and gotinto communication with the mining man.

“How are you?” came the response fromWeatherbee. “Done for? Drop off atScenic Hot Springs, if your train comes through.She wrote she was there. Came up with a littlecrowd for the coasting. Take care of yourself,and here is to you.

“Lucky.”

And Tisdale, with the genial wrinkles deepening atthe corners of his eyes once more, wired: “Fitas a moose. Go fifteenth. Close business.”

A judge may pronounce a sentence yet, at the sametime, feel ungovernable springs of sympathy wellingfrom the depths of his heart, and while Tisdale pushedhis way back to the stalled train, he went over thesituation from Beatriz Weatherbee’s side.He knew what the sale of that desert tract must meanto her; how high her hopes had flown since the paymentof the bonus. Looking forward to that final interviewwhen, notwithstanding his improvements, Banks shouldrelinquish his option, he weighed her disappointment.In imagination he saw the light go out of her eyes;her lip, that short upper lip with its curves of abow, would quiver a little, and the delicate nostril;then, instantly, before she had spoken a word, herindomitable pride would be up like a lifted whip, tosting her into self-control. Oh, she had thecourage; she would brave it out. Still, still,he had intended to be there, not only to press theultimate purpose, but to—ease her through.Banks might be abrupt. He was sorry. Hewas so sorry that though he had tramped, mushed a mile,he faced about, and, in the teeth of a bitter wind,returned to the station.

The snow was falling thickly; it blurred his tracksbehind him; the crest of a drift was caught up andcarried, swirling, into the railroad cut he had left,and a great gust tore into the office with him.The solitary operator hurried to close the door and,shivering, stooped to put a huge stick of wood inthe stove. “It’s too bad,” hesaid. “Forgot the main point, I suppose.If this keeps up, and your train moves to-morrow, itwill be through a regular snow canyon. I justgot word your head rotary is out of commission, butanother is coming up from the east with a gang ofshovellers. They’ll stop here for water.It’s a chance for you to ride back to your train.”

“Thank you, I will wait,” Tisdale answeredgenially. “But I like walking in this mountainair. I like it so well that if the blockade doesn’tlift by to-morrow, I am going to mush through andpick up a special to the coast.”

While he spoke, he brushed the snow from his shouldersand took off his hat and gloves. He stood anothermoment, rubbing and pinching his numb hands, thenwent over to the desk and filled a telegraph blank.He laid down the exact amount of the charges in silver,to which he added five dollars in gold.

The operator went around the counter and picked upthe money. For an instant his glance, movingfrom the message, rested on Tisdale’s face incurious surprise. This man surely enjoyed themountain air. He had tramped back in the teethof a growing blizzard to send an order for violetsto Hollywood Gardens, Seattle. The flowers wereto be expressed to a lady at Scenic Hot Springs.

After that Tisdale spent an interval moving restlesslyabout the room. He read the advertisem*nts onthe walls, studied the map of the Great Northern route,and when the stove grew red-hot, threw open the doorand tramped the platform in the piping wind.Finally, when the keyboard was quiet, the operatorbrought him a magazine. The station did not keepa news-stand, but a conductor on the westbound hadleft this for him to read. There was a mightygood yarn—this was it—“TheTenas Papoose.” It was just the kind whena man was trying to kill time.

Tisdale took the periodical. No, he had not seenit aboard the train; there were so many of these newmagazines, it was hard to choose. He smiled atfirst, that editor’s note was so preposterous,so plainly sensational; or was it malicious?He re-read it, knitting his brows. Who was thiswriter Daniels? His mind ran back to that dayaboard the Aquila. Aside from the Morgansteinsand Mrs. Weatherbee, there had been no one else inthe party until the lieutenant was picked up at Bremerton,after the adventure was told. But Daniels—heglanced back to be sure of the author’s name—JamesDaniels. Now he remembered. That was theirrepressible young fellow who had secured the photographsin Snoqualmie Pass at the time of the accident tothe Morganstein automobile; who had later interviewedMrs. Weatherbee on the train. Had he then soughther at her hotel, ostensibly to present her with acopy of the newspaper in which those illustrationswere published, and so ingratiated himself far enoughin her favor to gather another story from her?

Tisdale went over to a chair near the window and beganto go over those abridged columns. He turnedthe page, and his lips set grimly. At last heclosed the magazine and looked off through the driftingsnow. He had been grossly misrepresented, andthe reason was clear.

This editor, struggling to establish a new periodical,had used Daniels’ material to attract the publiceye. He may even have had political ambitionsand aimed deeper to strike the administration throughhim. He may have taken this method to curry favorwith certain moneyed men. Still, still, whatobject had there been in leaving Weatherbee completelyout of the story? Weatherbee, who should havecarried the leading role; who, lifting the adventurehigh above the sensational, had made it somethingfine.

Again his thoughts ran back to that cruise on theAquila. He saw that group on the after-deck;Rainier lifting southward like a phantom mountainover the opal sea; and westward the Olympics, loomingclear-cut, vivid as a scene in the tropics; the purplishblue of the nearer height sharply defined againstthe higher amethyst slope that marked the gorge ofthe Dosewallups. This setting had brought thetragedy to his mind, and to evade the questions Morgansteinpressed, he had commenced to relate the adventure.But afterwards he had found himself going into themore intimate detail with a hope of reviving somespark of appreciation of David in the heart of hiswife. And he had believed that he had. Still,who else, in all that little company, could have hadany motive in leaving out Weatherbee? Why hadshe told the story at all? She was a woman ofgreat self-control, but also she had depths of pride.Had she, in the high tide of her anger or pique, takenthis means to retaliate for the disappointment hehad caused her?

The approaching work-train whistled the station.He rose and went back to the operator’s deskand filled another blank. This time he addresseda prominent attorney, and his close friend, in Washington,D.C. And the message ran:

“See Sampson’s Magazine, March,page 330. Find whether revised or Daniels’copy.”

Toward noon the following day the express began tocrawl cautiously out, with the rotaries still buckingahead, through the great snow canyons. The morningof the sixteenth he had left Spokane with the greatlevels of the Columbia desert stretching before him.And that afternoon at Wenatchee, with the white gatesof the Cascades a few hours off, a messenger calledhis name down the aisle. The answer had come fromhis attorney. The story was straight copy; publishedas received.

CHAPTER XXV

THE IDES OF MARCH

In order to prepare for the defense, Miles Feversham,accompanied by his wife, arrived in Seattle the firstweek in March. The month had opened stormy, withheavy rains, and to bridge the interval preceding thetrial, Marcia planned an outing at Scenic Hot Springswhere, at the higher altitude, the precipitation hadtaken the form of snow, and the hotel advertised goodskeeing and tobogganing. “Make the mostof it,” she admonished Frederic; “it’syour last opportunity. If Lucky Banks forfeitshis bonus, and you can manage to keep your head anduse a little diplomacy, we may have the engagementannounced before the case comes up.”

Though diplomacy was possible only through suggestion,Frederic was a willing and confident medium.He knew Mrs. Weatherbee had notified Banks she wasat Scenic and, watching her that day of the fifteenth,he was at first puzzled and then encouraged that,as the hours passed and the prospector failed to come,her spirits steadily rose.

Elizabeth betrayed more anxiety. At evening shestood at the window in Beatriz’s room, watchingthe bold front of the mountain which the Great Northerntracks crosscut to Cascade tunnel, when the Spokanelocal rounded the highest curve and dropped cautiouslyto the first snow-sheds. The bluffs between weretoo sheer to accumulate snow, and against the darkbackground the vague outlines of the cars passed likeshadows; the electric lights, blazing from the coaches,produced the effect of an aerial, fiery dragon.Then, in the interval it disappeared, an eastboundchallenged from the lower gorge, and the monster rushedfrom cover, shrieking defiance; the pawing clamp ofits trucks roused the mountainside. “Thereis your last westbound,” she said. “Ifyour option man isn’t aboard, he forfeits hisbonus. But you will be ahead the three thousanddollars and whatever improvements he may have made.”

Mrs. Weatherbee stood at the mirror fastening a greatbunch of violets at her belt. There was a bouquetof them on the dresser, and a huge bowl filled withthem and relieved by a single red rose stood on thetable in the center of the room. “Thatis what troubles me,” she replied, and ruffledher brows. “It seems so unjust that he shouldlose so much; that I should accept everything withoutcompensating him.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I guess he meant toget what he could out of the investment, but afterwards,when he married and found his wife owned the adjoiningunreclaimed tract, it altered the situation. Itcalled for double capital and, if he hesitated andit came to a choice, naturally her interests wouldswing the balance.”

“No doubt,” admitted Beatriz. “Andin that case,”—she turned from themirror to watch the train—“I mightdeed her a strip of ground where it was discoveredher tract overlapped David’s. That wouldbe a beginning.”

“See here.” Elizabeth turned, andfor an instant the motherhood deep in her softenedthe masculine lines of her face. “Don’tyou worry about Lucky Banks. Perhaps he did gointo the project to satisfy his conscience, but thedeal was his, and he had the money to throw away.Some men get their fun making over the earth.When one place is finished, they lose interest andgo looking for a chance to put their time and dollarsinto improving somewhere else. Besides,”—andshe took this other woman into her abrupt and rareembrace—“I happen to know he had anoffer for his option and refused a good price.Now, come, Marcia and Frederic have gone down to thedining-room, you know. They were to order forus.”

But Beatriz was in no hurry. “The trainis on the bridge,” she said and caught a quickbreath. “Do you hear? It is stoppingat the station.”

Elizabeth, waiting at the open door, answered:“We can see the new arrivals, if there are any,when we go through the lobby.”

Mrs. Weatherbee started across the room, but at thetable she stopped to bend over the bowl of violets,inhaling their fragrance. “Aren’tthey lovely and—prodigal enough to colorwhole fields?”

Elizabeth laughed. “Frederic must haveordered wholesale, or else he forgot they were inseason.”

Beatriz lifted her face. “Did Mr. Morgansteinsend these violets?” she asked. “Ithought—but there was no card.”

“Why, I don’t know,” said Elizabeth,“but who else would have ordered whole fieldsof them?”

Mrs. Weatherbee was silent, but she smiled a littleas she followed Elizabeth from the room. Whenthey reached the foot of the staircase, the lobbywas nearly deserted; if the train had left any guests,they had been shown already to their rooms.

The Morganstein table was at the farther end of thedining-room, but Frederic, who was watching the doorwhen the young women entered, at once noticed theviolets at Mrs. Weatherbee’s belt.

“Must have been sent from Seattle on that lasteastbound,” he commented, frowning. “Say,Marcia, why didn’t you remind me to order someflowers from town?”

Marcia’s calculating eyes followed his gaze.“You would not have remembered she is fond ofviolets, and they seem specially made for her; youwould have ordered unusual orchids or imported azaleas.”

Frederic laughed uneasily, and a purplish flush deepenedin his cheeks. “I always figure the bestis never too good for her. Not that the highestpriced makes so much difference with her. Lookat her, now, will you? Wouldn’t you think,the way she carries herself, that little gray gownwas a coronation robe? George, but she is game!Acts like she expects Lucky Banks to drop in witha clear fifty thousand, when the chances are he’sgone back on his ten. Well,” he said, risingas she approached, to draw out her chair, “whatdo you think about your customer now? Too bad.I bet you’ve spent his Alaska dust in anticipationa hundred times over. Don’t deny it,”he held up his heavy hand in playful warning as heresumed his chair. “Speculated some myselfon what you’d do with it. George, I’dlike to see the reins in your hands for once, andwatch you go. You’d set us a pace; breakall records.”

“Oh, no, no,” she expostulated in evidentdistress. “I shouldn’t care to—set the pace—if I were to come into a kingdom;please don’t think that. I have wantedto keep up, I admit; to hold my own. I have beenmiserably afraid sometimes of being left behind, alone,crowded out, beaten.”

“Beaten? You? I guess not. Betanybody ten to one you’ll be in at the finish,I don’t care who’s in the field, even ifyou drop in your traces next minute. And I betif this sale does fall through to-night, you’llbe looking up, high as ever, to-morrow, setting yourheart on something else out of reach.”

“Out of reach?” she responded evenly,arching her brows. “You surprise me.You have led me to believe I am easy to please.”

“So you are,” he capitulated instantly,“in most ways. All the same, you carrythe ambitions of a duch*ess buttoned under that graygown. But I like you for it; like you so wellI’m going to catch myself taking that propertyoff your hands, if Banks goes back on you.”

He leaned towards her as he said this, smiling andtrying to hold her glance, but she turned her faceand looked off obliviously across the room. Therewere moments when even Frederic Morganstein was consciousof the indefinable barrier beyond which lay intrenched,an untried and repelling force. He straightenedand, following her gaze, saw Lucky Banks enter thedoor.

Involuntarily Elizabeth started, and Mrs. Fevershamcaught a quick breath. “At the eleventhhour,” she said then, and her eyes met her brother’s.“Yes or no?” they telegraphed.

It was the popular hour, an orchestra was playing,and the tables were well filled, but the mining man,marshalled by a tall and important head waitress,drew himself straight and with soldierly precisioncame down the room as far as the Morganstein group.There, recognizing Mrs. Weatherbee, he stopped and,with the maimed hand behind him, made his short, swiftbow. “I guess likely you gave me up,”he said in his high key, “but I waited long’sI dared for the through train. She’s beensnowed under three days in the Rockies. Theyhad her due at Wenatchee by two-fifteen; then it wasput off to five, and when the local came along, I thoughtI might as well take her.”

Mrs. Weatherbee, who had started to rise, settledback in her chair with a smile. “I hadgiven you up, Mr. Banks,” she said not quitesteadily.

Then Morganstein said: “How do, Banks,”and offered his hand. “Just in time tojoin us. Ordered saddle of Yakima lamb, firston the market, dressing of fine herbs, for the crowd.Suits you, doesn’t it?”

To which the little prospector responded: “My,yes, first class, but I don’t want to put youout.”

“You won’t,” Frederic chuckled;“couldn’t do it if you tried.”

But it was Elizabeth who rose to make room for theextra chair on her side of the table, and who inquiredpresently after his wife.

“Mrs. Banks is fine,” he answered, hisbleak face glowing. “My, yes, seems likeshe makes a better showing now than she did at theCorners seven years back.”

“Still driving those bays?” asked Frederic.

The mining man nodded with reluctance. “It’sno use to try to get her to let ’em alone long’sthey are on the place, and I couldn’t sneak ’emaway; she was always watching around. She thinksTisdale will likely sell when he sees she can managethe team.”

“So,” laughed Morganstein, “you’llhave to come up with that Christmas present, afterall.”

“They will do for her birthday,” repliedBanks gravely. “I picked out a new ringfor Christmas. It was a first-class diamond, andshe liked it all right. She said,” anda shade of humor warmed his face, “she wouldhave to patronize the new manicure store down to Wenatchee,if I expected her to have hands fit to wear it, andif she had to live up to that ring, it would costme something before she was through.”

“And did she try the parlors?” asked Elizabethseriously.

“My, yes, and it was worth the money. Herhands made a mighty fine showing the first trip, andbefore she used up her ticket, I was telling her she’dhave to wear mittens when she played the old melodion,or likely her fingers would get hurt hitting the keys.”

Banks laughed his high, strained laugh, and Morgansteinechoed it deeply. “Ought to have an establishmentin the new town,” he said.

“We are going to,” the prospector replied;“as soon as the new brick block is ready toopen up. There’s going to be manicure andhair-dressing parlors back of the millinery store.Lucile, Miss Lucile Purdy of Sedgewick-Wilson’s,is coming over to run ’em both. She cando it, my, yes.”

“Now I can believe you have a self-respectingand wide-awake town,” commented Mrs. Feversham.“But is the big department store backing MissPurdy?”

“No, ma’am. We ain’t talkingabout it much, but Mrs. Banks has put up money; shesays she is the silent partner of the concern.”

“Is that so?” questioned Morganstein thoughtfully.“Seems to me you are banking rather heavy onthe new town.”

Banks’ eyes gleamed appreciation, but the capitalistmissed his inadvertent pun. After a moment, themining man said: “I guess the millineryinvestment won’t break us; but there’sno question about Weatherbee’s being a livetown, and Lucile can sell goods.”

“I presume next,” said Mrs. Fevershamwith veiled irony, “we shall be hearing of youas the first mayor of Weatherbee.”

Banks shook his head gravely. “They shoulderedthat on to Henderson Bailey.”

“I remember,” said Frederic. “Manwho started the orchard excitement, wasn’t he?Got in on the ground floor and platted some of hisland in city lots. Naturally, he’s runningfor mayor.”

“He’s it,” responded the miningman. “The election came off Tuesday, andhe led his ticket, my, yes, clear out of sight.”

“Bet you ran for something, though,” respondedMorganstein. “Bet they had you up for treasurer.”

Banks laughed. “There was some talk ofit—my wife said they were looking for somebodythat could make good if the city money fell short—butmost of the bunch thought my lay was the Board ofControl. You see, I got to looking after thingsto help Bailey out, while he was busy moving his applesor maybe his city lots. My, it got so’swhen Mrs. Banks couldn’t find me down to thecity park, watching the men grub out sage-brush forthe new trees, she could count on my being up-streamto the water-works, or hiking out to the lighting-plant.It’s kept me rushed, all right. It takestime to start a first-class town. It has to bedone straight from bedrock. But now that Annabel’shouse up Hesperides Vale is built, and the flumesare in, she thinks likely she can run her ranch, andI think likely,”—the prospector paused,and his eyes, with their gleam of blue glacier ice,sought Mrs. Weatherbee’s. Hers clouded alittle, and she leaned slightly towards him, waitingwith hushed breath—“I think likely,”he repeated in a higher key, “seeing’sthe Alameda has to be finished up, and the fountaingot in shape at the park, with the statue about duefrom New York, I may as well drop Dave’s projectand call the deal off.”

There was a silence, during which the eyes of everyone rested on Beatriz. She straightened witha great sigh; the color rushed coral-pink to her face.

“I am—sorry—about yourloss, Mr. Banks,” she said, then, and her voicefluctuated softly, “but I shall do my best—Ishall make it a point of honor—to sometimereimburse you.” Her glance fell to the violetsat her belt; she singled one from the rest and, inhalingits perfume, held it lightly to her lips.

“You thoroughbred!” said Frederic thickly.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE EVERLASTING DOOR

Sometime during the night of the fifteenth, the belatedChinook wind began to flute through the canyon, andtowards dawn the guests at Scenic Hot Springs werewakened by the near thunder of an avalanche. Aftera while, word was brought that the Great Northerntrack was buried under forty feet of snow and rockand fallen trees for a distance of nearly a mile.Later a rotary steamed around the high curve on themountain and stopped, like a toy engine on an uppershelf, while the Spokane local, upon which Banks hadexpected to return to Weatherbee, forged a few milesbeyond the hotel to leave a hundred laborers fromSeattle. Thin wreaths of vapor commenced to riseand, gathering volume with incredible swiftness, blottedout the plow and the snow-sheds, and meeting, brokein a storm of hail. The cloud lifted, but ina short interval was followed by another that burstin a deluge of rain, and while the slope was stillobscured, a report was telegraphed from the summitthat a second avalanche had closed the east portalof Cascade tunnel, through which the Oriental Limitedhad just passed. At nightfall, when the workof clearing away the first mass of debris was notyet completed, a third slide swept down seven laborersand demolished a snow-shed. The unfortunate trainthat had been delayed so long in the Rockies was indefinitelystalled.

The situation was unprecedented. Never beforein the history of the Great Northern had there beenso heavy a snowfall in the Cascades; the sudden thawfollowing an ordinary precipitation must have lookedserious, but the moving of this vast accumulationbecame appalling. All through that day, the secondnight the cannonading of avalanches continued, distantand near. At last came an interlude. Thewarm wind died out; at evening there was a promiseof frost; and only the voice of the river disturbedthe gorge. Dawn broke still and crisp and clear.The mountain tops shone in splendor, purple cliffsstood sharply defined against snow-covered slopes,and whole companies in the lower ranks of the treeshad thrown off their white cloaks. It was a dayto delight the soul, to rouse the heart, invite todeeds of emulation. Even Frederic was responsive,and when after breakfast Marcia broached a plan toscale the peak that loomed southeast of the pass,he grasped at the diversion. “We’repretty high up already, here at Scenic,” hecommented, surveying the dome from his chair on thehotel veranda. “Three or four thousand feetought to put us on the summit. Have the chance,anyhow, to see that stalled train.”

“Of course it wouldn’t be an achievementlike the ascent of Rainier,” she tempered, “butwe should have chances enough to use our alpenstocksbefore we’re through; and it should be a magnificentview; all the great peaks from Oregon to British Columbiarising around.”

“With the Columbia River below us,” saidElizabeth, “and all those miles of desert.We might even catch a glimpse of your new Eden overthere, Beatriz.”

Mrs. Weatherbee nodded, with the sparkles breakingin her eyes. “I know this is the peak wewatched the day I drove from Wenatchee. It rosewhite and shining at the top of Hesperides Vale, andit may have another name, but I called it the EverlastingDoor.”

Once since their arrival at Scenic Hot Springs theyhad followed, skeeing, an old abandoned railroad track,used by the Great Northern during the constructionof the big tunnel, to the edge of the desired peak,and, at Marcia’s suggestion, Frederic invitedLucky Banks to join the expedition in the capacityof captain and guide. The prospector admittedhe felt “the need of a little exercise”and, having studied the mountain with field-glassesand consulted with the hotel proprietor, he consentedto see them through. No doubt the opportunityto learn the situation of the Oriental Limited andthe possibilities of getting in touch with Tisdale,should the train fail to move before his return fromthe summit, had influenced the little man’sdecision. A few spikes in his shoes, some hardtackand cheese with an emergency flask in his pockets,a coil of rope and a small hatchet that might serveequally well as an ice-ax or to clear undergrowthon the lower slopes, was ample equipment, and he wasoff to reconnoiter the mountainside fully an hourin advance of the packer whom Morganstein engagedfor the first stage of the journey.

When the man arrived at the foot of the sharp ascentwhere he was to be relieved, Banks was finishing thepiece of trail he had blazed and mushed diagonallyup the slope to a rocky cleaver that stretched likea causeway from the timber to firm snow, but he returnedwith time to spare between the departure of the packerand the appearance of his party, to open the unwieldyload; from this he discarded two bottles of claretand another of port, with their wrappings of straw,a steamer-rug, some tins of pate de foie gras andother sundries that made for weight, but which thecapitalist had considered essential to the comfortand success of the expedition. There still remaineda well-stocked hamper, including thermos bottles ofcoffee and tea, and a second rug, which he rolled snuglyin the oilskin cover and secured with shoulder-straps.The eliminated articles, that he cached under a log,were not missed until luncheon, which was served ona high, spur below the summit while Banks was absentmaking a last reconnaissance, and Frederic blamedthe packer.

The spur was flanked above by a craggy buttress andbroke below to an abyss which was divided by a narrow,tongue-like ridge, and over this, on a lower levelof the opposite peak, appeared the steep roofs of themountain station at the entrance to Cascade tunnel,where, on the tracks outside the portal, stood thestalled train. It seemed within speaking distancein that rare atmosphere, though several miles intervened.

After a while sounds of metal striking ice came froma point around the buttress; Banks was cutting steps.Then, following a silence, he appeared. But,on coming into the sunny westward exposure, he stopped,and with two fingers raised like a weather-vane, stoodgazing down the canyon. His eyes began to scintillatelike chippings of blue glacier.

Involuntarily every one turned in that direction,and Frederic reached to take his field-glasses fromthe shelf of the buttress they had converted intoa table. But he saw nothing new to hold the attentionexcept three or four gauzy streamers of smoke or vaporthat floated in the lower gorge.

“Looks like a train starting up,” he commented,“but the Limited gets the right of way as soonas there’s a clear track.”

Banks dropped his hand and moved a few steps to takethe glasses from Morganstein. “You’reright,” he replied in his high, strained key.“It ain’t any train moving; it’sthe Chinook waking up.” He focussed on theOriental Limited, then slowly swept the peak that overtoppedthe cars. “Likely they dasn’t backher into the tunnel,” he said. “Thebore is long enough to take in the whole bunch, butif a slide toppled off that shoulder, it would pen’em in and cut off the air. It looks betteroutside, my, yes.”

“Here is your coffee, Mr. Banks,” saidElizabeth, who had filled a cup from the thermos bottle,“and please take anything else you wish whileI repack the basket. We are all waiting, yousee, to go on.”

The prospector paused to take the cup, then said:“I guess likely we won’t make the summitthis trip. We’ve got to hustle to get downbefore it turns soft.”

“Oh, but we must make the summit,” exclaimedMarcia, taking up her alpenstock. “Why,we are all but there.”

“How does it look ahead?” inquired Frederic,walking along the buttress. “Heard youchopping ice.”

“I was cutting steps across the tail end ofa little glacier. It’s a gliddery place,but the going looks all right once you get past.Well, likely you can make it,” he added shrilly,“but you’ve got to be quick.”

The life of the trail that sharpens a man’sperceptives teaches him to read individuality swiftly,and this Alaskan who, the first day out on a longstampede, could have told the dominant trait of eachhusky in his team, knew his party as well as the risk.Golf and tennis, added to a naturally strong physique,had given the two sisters nerves of steel. Marcia,who had visited some of the great glaciers in the north,possessed the insight and coolness of a mountain explorer;and all the third woman lacked in physical endurancewas more than made up in courage. The man, thoughenervated by over-indulgence, had the brute force,the animal instinct of self-preservation, to carryhim through. So presently, when the buttresswas passed, and the prospector uncoiled his rope, itwas to Mrs. Feversham he gave the other end, placingMorganstein next, with Elizabeth at the center andMrs. Weatherbee second. Once, twice, Banks felther stumble, a sinking weight on the line, but in theinstant he caught a twist in the slack and fixed hisheels in the crust to turn, she had, in each case,recovered and come steadily on. It was only whenthe gliddery passage was made, the peril behind, thatshe sank down in momentary collapse.

Banks stopped to unfold his pocket-cup and take outhis flask. “You look about done for,”he said briskly. “My, yes, that little tasteof glacier was your limit. But you ain’tthe kind to back out. No, ma’am, all youneed is a little bracer to put you on your feet again,good as new.”

“I never can go back,” she said, and methis concerned look with wide and luminous eyes.“Unless—I’m carried. Neverin the world.”

Morganstein forced a laugh. It had a frosty sound;his lips were blue. “Excuse me,”he responded. “Anywhere else I wouldn’thesitate, but here, I draw the line.”

The prospector was holding the draught to her lips,and she took a swallow and pushed away the cup.It was brandy, raw, scalding, and it brought the colorback to her face. “Thank you,” shesaid, and forced a smile. “It is bracing;my tensions are all screwed. I feel like climbingon to—Mars.”

Frederic laughed again. “You go on, Banks,”he said, relieving him of the cup; “she’sall right. You hurry ahead before one of thosegirls walks over a precipice.”

He could not persuade her to take more of the liquor,so he himself drank the bracer, after which he putthe cup and the flask, which Banks had left, awayin his own pockets. She was up, whipping downher fear. “Come,” she said, “wemust hurry to overtake them.”

Her steps, unsteady at first, grew sure and determined;she drew longer, deeper breaths; the pink of a wildrose flushed her cheeks. But Frederic, ploddingabreast, laid his hand on her arm.

“See here,” he said, “you can’tkeep this up; stop a minute. They’ve gotto wait for us. George, that ambition of yourscan spur you to the pace. Never saw so much spiritdone up in a small package. Go off, sometime,like Fourth o’ July fireworks.” Hechuckled, looking down at her with admiration in hisround eyes. “Like you for it, though.George, it’s just that has made you worth waitingfor.”

She gave him a quick glance and, setting her alpenstock,sprang from his detaining hand.

“See, they have reached the summit,” shecalled. “They are waiting already for us.And see!” she exclaimed tensely, as he struggledafter her. “It is going to be grand.”

A vast company of peaks began to lift, tier on tierlike an amphitheater, above the rim of the dome, whilefar eastward, as they cross-cut the rounding incline,stretched those tawny mountains that had the appearanceof strange and watchful beasts, guarding the levelsof the desert, bare of snow. Glimpses there wereof the blue Columbia, the racy Wenatchee, but Weatherbee’spocket was closed. Then, presently, as they gainedthe summit, it was no longer an amphitheater intowhich they looked, but a billowing sea of cloud, outof which rose steep and inhospitable shores.Then, everywhere, far and away, shone opal-shaded islandsof mystery.

“Oh,” she said, with a little, sighingbreath, “these are the Isles of the Blest.We have come through the Everlasting Door into thebetter country.”

She stood looking off in rapture, but the man sawonly the changing lights in her face. He turneda little, taking in the charm of pose, the lift ofchin, parted lips, hand shading softly shining eyes.After a moment he answered: “Wish we had.Wish every other man you knew was left out, on theother side of the door.”

Her hand fell, she gave him her sweeping look andmoved to join the waiting group.

Banks came to meet them. “We’ve stayedto the limit; my, yes, it’s the last call,”he explained in his tense key. “There’sa couple of places we don’t want to see ourselvescaught in when the thaw strikes. And they’regetting a heavy rain down at the Springs now; likelyup at the tunnel it’s snow or hail.”He paused, turning to send a final glance into themist, then said: “Less than ten minutesago I had a sight of that train, but you see now she’swiped off the map. It’ll be a close race,my, yes. Give me that stick, ma’am; youcan make better time on the down-grade holding onto me.”

With this, he offered his able hand to Mrs. Weatherbeeand, followed by the rest of the party, helped herswiftly down the slope. But clearly his mindwas on the stalled train. “Likely, huggingthe mountainside, they don’t see how the snowcrowds overhead,” he said. “And I’dought to have taken time to run over and give ’ema tip. I’m going to, I’m going to,soon’s I get you down to that old railroad trackwhere you can make it alone.”

“Do you mean the Limited is in danger?”she asked, springing and tripping to his stride.

And Banks nodded grimly. “Yes, ma’am.It’s a hard proposition, even to a man likeTisdale, who is used to breaking his own trail.He knows he’s got to fight shy of the slidesalong that burned over switchback, but if he saw thebox that train is in, he would just hike around tothis side of the canyon, where the pitches are shorter,and the green trees stand some show to hold the snow,and work down to the old track to the Springs.”

“Is Mr. Tisdale"’—her voicebroke a little—“Mr. Hollis Tisdaleon that train?”

“Likely, yes. He was snowbound on her inthe Rockies, last I heard, and ‘feeling fitas a moose.’ Being penned up so long, he’dlikely rather take a hike down to the hotel than not.It would be good for his health.” And thelittle man piped his high, mirthless laugh.

She stumbled, and he felt the hand in his tremble,but the abrupt incline of the glacier had opened beforethem, and he believed she dreaded to re-cross theice. “Keep cool,” he admonished, releasingher to uncoil the rope again, “Stand steady.Just recollect if you came over this, you can getback.”

But when, presently, the difficult passage safelymade, they rounded the crag and gained the level shoulderwhere they had lunched, they seemed to have arrivedat a different place. The lower canyon, whichnot two hours before had stretched into blue distancebelow them, was lost in the creeping sea of cloud;the abyss at their feet gathered immensity, and thetop of the timbered ridge lifted midway like a strange,floating garden. The station at Cascade tunnel,all the opposite mountain, was obscured, then, whileBanks stood re-coiling his rope, the sounds that haddisturbed the guests at Scenic Hot Springs those previousnights rose, reverberating, through the hidden gorge.The Chinook had resumed its work.

The way below the spur broke in easy steps to thelong and gradual slope that terminated above the cleaverof rock and, anxious to reach the unfortunate train,Banks hurried on. Marcia and Elizabeth trailedquickly after, but Mrs. Weatherbee remained seatedon the shelving ledge at the foot of the crag.Frederic sank heavily into the place beside her andtook out the flask.

“You are all in,” he said. “Come,take this; it’s diluted this time with snow.”

But she gave him no attention, except to push asidethe cup. She waited, listening, leaning forwarda little as though her wide eyes could penetrate thepall. Then, torn by cross currents of wind, thecloud parted, and the mountain loomed like a phantompeak over the gulf. She started up and stoodswaying gently on her feet while the trees, tall andspectral and cloaked in snow, opened rank on rank likea uniformed company. Lower still, the steep roofsof the station reflected a shaft of the sun, and thelong line of cars appeared clearly defined, waitingstill on the tracks outside the portal.

The rent in the cloud closed. She turned witha great, sighing breath. “Did you see?”she said. “The train is safe.”

“Of course.” And again, having himselftaken the bracer, Frederic rose and returned the flaskto his pocket. “So, that was troubling you;thought that train might have been struck. Guessif an avalanche had come down there, we’d haveheard some noise. It’s safe enough here,”he added. “Top of this crag was built toshed snow like a church steeple.”

“But why are we waiting?” And glancingaround, she exclaimed in dismay: “The othershave gone. See! They are almost out of sight.”

She began to walk swiftly to the lower rim of theshoulder, and Frederic followed. Down the slopehis sisters and Banks seemed to be moving througha film. They mingled with it indistinctly as thefigures in faded tapestry. But Morganstein laidhis hand on her arm to detain her. “What’syour hurry?” he asked thickly. “Allwe got to do now is keep their trail. Tracksare clear as day.”

“We shall delay them; they will wait.”

She tried to pass him, but they had reached the stepfrom the spur, and he swung around to block the narrowway. “Not yet,” he said. “Thisis the moment I’ve been waiting for. Firsttime in months you’ve given me a fair chanceto speak to you. Always headed me off. I’mtired of being held at arm’s length. I’vebeen patient to the limit. I’m going toknow now, to-day, before we go down from this mountain,how soon you are going to marry me.”

She tried again to pass him but, taking incautiousfooting, slipped, and his arm saved her. “Idon’t care how soon it is,” he went on,“or where. Quietly at your apartments,or a big church wedding. On board the first boatsailing for Yokohama, after those coal cases are settled,suits me.”

She struggled to free herself, then managed to turnand face him, with her palms braced against his breast.His arm relaxed a little, so that he was able to lookdown in her lifted face. What he saw there wasnot altogether anger, though aversion was in her eyes;not surprise, not wholly derision, though her lipssuggested a smile, but an indefinable something thatbaffled, mastered him. His arm fell. “Japanis fine in the spring,” he said. “Andwe could take our time, coming back by way of Hawaiito see the big volcano, with another stop-over atManila. Get home to begin housekeeping at thevilla in midsummer.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed at last, “doyou think I am a silly girl to be dazzled and tempted?Who knows nothing of marriage and the cost?”

“No,” he responded quickly. “Ithink you are a mighty clever woman. But you’vegot to the point where you can’t hedge any more.Banks has gone back on that option. If he won’tbuy, nobody else will. And it takes ready moneyto run a big ranch like that, even after the improvementsare in. You can’t realize on your orchards,even in the Wenatchee country, short of four years.So you’ll have to marry me; only way out.”

She gave him her swift, sweeping look, and the bluelights blazed in her eyes. “I will rememberyou are Elizabeth’s brother,” she said.“I will try to remember that. But pleasedon’t say any more. Every moment counts;come.”

Morganstein laughed. As long as she parried,as long as she did not refuse outright to marry him,he must keep reasonably cool. He stooped to pickup the alpenstock she had dropped, then offered hishand down the step from the spur. “SorryI put it just that way,” he said. “I’ma plain business man; used to coming straight to thepoint; but I guess you’ve known how much I thoughtof you all these years. Had to keep on a highcheck-rein while Weatherbee lived, and tried my best,afterwards, to give him a year’s grace, butyou knew just the same. Know—don’tyou?—I might take my pick out of the dozennicest girls in Seattle to-day. Only have to saythe word. Not one in the bunch would turn me down.But I wouldn’t have one of ’em for secondchoice. Nobody but you will do.” Hepaused, then added with his narrow look: “Andwhat I want, you ought to know that too, I get.”

She met the look with a shake of the head and forceda smile. “Some things are not to be boughtat any price. But, of course, I have seen—awoman does—” she went on hurriedly,withdrawing her hand. “There was a time,I confess, when I did consider—your wayout. But I dared not take it; even then, I darednot.”

“You dared not?” Frederic laughed again.“Never thought you were afraid of me. Neversaw you afraid of anything. But I see. Miserableexperience with Weatherbee made you little cautious.George, don’t see how any man could have desertedyou. Trust me to make it up to you. Marryme, and I’ll show you such a good time Weatherbeewon’t amount to a bad dream.”

“I do not wish to forget David Weatherbee,”she said.

“George!” he exclaimed curiously.“Do you mean you ever really loved him?A man who left you, practically without a cent, beforeyou were married a month.”

“No.” Her voice was low; her liptrembled a little. “No, I did not lovehim—as he deserved; as I was able to love.”She paused, then went on with decision: “Buthe did not leave me unprovided for. David Weatherbeenever deserted me. And, even though he had, thoughhe had been the kind of man I believed him to be,it would make no difference. I could not marryyou.”

There was a silence during which they continued tofollow the tracks that cross-cut the slope. ButMorganstein’s face was not pleasant to see.All the complaisancy of the egotist who has long andsuccessfully shaped lives to his own ends was withdrawn;it left exposed the ugly inner side of the man.The trail was becoming soft; the damp of the Chinookbegan to envelop them; already the advancing filmstretched like a curtain over the sun, and the threefigures that had seemed parts of a shaken tapestrydisappeared. Then, presently, Banks’ voice,muffled like a voice under a blanket, rose throughthe pall. And Frederic stopped to put his handto his mouth. “All right! Coming!”he answered, but the shout rebounded as though ithad struck a sounding board.

After another plodding silence, the prospector’shail reached them again. It seemed farther off,and this time Morganstein did not respond. Hestopped, however, and the woman beside him waited inexpectation. “Suppose,” he said slowly,“we are lost on this mountain to-night.Make a difference to-morrow—wouldn’tit?—whether you would marry me or not.”

The color rushed to her face and went; her breastrose and fell in deep, quick breaths, but she methis look fearlessly, lifting herself with the swayingmovement from the balls of her feet that made her suddenlytaller. “No.” And her tone,the way in which she said it, must have stung evenhis small soul; then she added: “You aremore brutal than I thought.”

She turned after that and herself sent the belatedresponse to Banks. But though she repeated thecall twice, making a trumpet of her hands and withall the power of her voice, his hail did not reachthem again. She started swiftly down. Itwas beginning to snow.

Frederic had nothing more to say. He moved onwith her. It was as though each tried to out-travelthe other, still they could not make up that delay.The snow fell in big, soft flakes that blurred thetracks they followed; soon they were completely blottedout, and though he strained his eyes continually,watching for the cleaver of rock they had climbedthat morning, the landmark never appeared. Finally,at the same instant, they both stopped, listening.On the silence broke innumerable small sounds likemany little hurrying feet. The mountain trembledslightly. “God Almighty!” he criedthickly. Then came the closer rush of a considerablebody, not unlike sheep passing in a fog, and panicseized him. “We’ve got to keep ontop,” he shouted and, grasping her arm, he swungher around and began to run back up the slope.

In the face of this common peril, personality calleda truce, and she pushed on with him blindly, leavingit to him to choose the way and set the pace.But their own tracks down the incline had filled withincredible swiftness; soon they were completely effaced.And, when the noise subsided, he stopped and lookedabout him, bewildered. He saw nothing but a breadthof sharply dipping slope, white, smooth as an unwrittenscroll, over which hung the swaying, voluminous veilof the falling snow. He put his hands to hismouth then, and lifted his voice in a great hail.It brought no reply, but in the moment he waited,somewhere far below in those obscured depths, a greattree, splitting under tremendous pressure, crasheddown, then quickly the terrific sweep and roar of asecond mightier avalanche filled the hidden gorge.

Morganstein caught her arm once more. “Wemust get back to that shoulder where it’s safe,”he shouted. “Banks will come to look usup.” After that, as they struggled on upthe slope, he fell to saying over and over, as longas the reverberations lasted: “AlmightyGod!”

As they ascended, the snow fell less heavily and finallyceased. It became firm underfoot, and a crosswind, starting in puffs, struck their faces sharplywith a promise of frost. Then strange hummocksbegan to rise. They were upheavals of ice, shroudedin snow. Sometimes a higher one presented a sheerfront shading to bluish-green. They had not passedthis point with Banks, but Morganstein shaped a courseto a black pinnacle, lifting through the mist beyond,that he believed was the crag at the shoulder.She stumbled repeatedly on the rough surface.Her labored breathing in the great stillness, likethe beat of a pendulum in an empty house, tried hisstrained nerves. He upbraided her for leavingher alpenstock down the slope. But she paid noattention. She looked back constantly; she waslike a woman being led away from a locked door, movingreluctantly, listening against hope for a word orsign. So, at last, they came to the rock.It was not the crag, but a hanging promontory, wherethe mountain broke in a three-sided precipice.The cloud surged around it like an unplumbed sea.

They crept back, and Morganstein tried again to determinetheir position. They were too high, he concluded;they must work down a little to round the cliffs,so they took a course diagonally into the smother.Then he, too, began to lose alertness; he walked mechanically,taking the line of least resistance; his head saggedforward; he saw nothing but the hummocks before him.These grew larger; they changed to narrow ridges withfissures between. After a while, one of thesebreaks roused him. It was exceedingly deep; hecould not see either end of it. The only way wasto leap, and he did it clumsily. Then, with hisalpenstock fixed, and his spiked heels set in thecrust, he reached a hand to her. She was barelyable to spring to the lower side, but it did not terrifyher. One fear only possessed her. Her glance,seeking, returned to the hidden canyon. But soonthey were confronted by a wider and still deeper chasm.It was impossible to cross it, though it seemed tonarrow upwards in the direction of the summit.He took her arm and began to ascend, looking for away over. The pitch grew steadily sharper.They entered the thinning edge of the cloud, and itbecame transparent like tissue of gold. Suddenlyit parted, and Frederic stopped, blinded by the blazeof a red sunset on snow. He closed his eyes aninstant, while, to avoid the glare, he turned his face.His first glance shocked him into a sense of greatperil. The two fissures ran parallel, and theywere ascending a tongue of ice between. Not farbelow, it narrowed to a point where the two crevasses,uniting, yawned in one. His knees weakened, buthe managed to swing himself cautiously around.The causeway seemed to rock under his weight; then,shading his sight with his hand, he saw they werealmost beneath the shoulder he had tried to reach.They had climbed too high, as he had believed, butalso they had descended too far. And they hadcome directly down the glacier, to cross the upperend of which Banks had found it necessary to use alifeline. “Be careful!” he whisperedthickly, and laid his hand on her shoulder, impellingher on. “Be careful, but, for God’ssake, hurry!”

He crowded her faster and faster up the incline; hedared not move abreast, it was so narrow. Sometimeshe lifted her bodily, for with every step his panicgrew. Beads of moisture gathered on his face,though the wind stiffened and sharpened; his own breathout-labored hers, and he cried again over and over:“God Almighty!” and “Almighty God!”Sometimes his tone was blasphemy and sometimes prayer.

But the moment came when she could not be fartherpressed. Her shoulder trembled under his hold,her limbs gave, and she sank down, to her knees atfirst, then to her elbow. Even then she movedher head enough to look backward over the abyss.“The train,” she whispered and, shuddering,dropped her face on her relaxed arm.

Morganstein ventured to glance back. Ragged fragmentstorn from the cloud below rose swirling across theopposite mountain top, and between their edges, likea picture in a frame, appeared briefly the roofs ofthe little station. But where the Oriental Limitedhad stood, the avalanche had passed. “GodAlmighty!” he repeated impotently, then immediatelythe sense of this appalling catastrophe whet the edgeof his personal terror. “Come!” hecried; “come, you can’t stop here.It’s dangerous. Come, you’ll freeze—orworse.”

She was silent. She made no effort to rise orindeed to move. He began to press by her andon in the direction of that safe spur. But presentlyanother dread assailed him; the dread of the city-bredman—accustomed to human intercourse, theswing of business, the stir of social life, to facegreat solitudes alone. This cross-fear becameso strong it turned him back in a second panic.Then floundering to keep his equilibrium after anincautious step, he sat down heavily and found himselfskidding towards the larger crevasse. He liftedhis alpenstock and in a frenzy thrust it into theice between his knees. It caught fast just shortof the brink and held him astride, with heels danglingover the abyss. He worked away cautiously, laboriously,shaking in all his big, soft bulk; and would havegiven up further attempt to rescue Beatriz Weatherbeehad he not at this moment discovered himself at herside.

He had not yet tried to rise to his feet, so safe-guardinghimself with the alpenstock thrust once more in theice, he paused to take the flask from his pocket andpoured all that remained of the liquor into the cup.It was a little over half full. Possibly he rememberedhow lavish he had been with those previous draughts,for he looked at his companion with a kind of regretas he lifted the cup unsteadily to drink. Then,gathering the remnants of his courage, he put hisarm under her head, raising it while he forced thesmall surplus of brandy he had left between her lips.She revived enough under the scalding swallow to pushthe cup away. Anywhere else he would have laughedat her feeble effort to throw off his touch; but hedid not urge her to finish the draught, and, as hehad done earlier that day, himself hastily drainedthe cup. He dropped it beside the empty flaskand struggled up.

“Now,” he said, “we’ve gotto make that spur where it’s safe. Come.It isn’t far; just been up to that place whereBanks helped us across; had to come back for you.”

But he was obliged to lift her to her feet and tosupport her up the slope. And this, even thoughthe tongue widened above them, threw him perilouslyclose to the crevasse. Once, twice, the ice brokeon the brink and dropped clinking down, down.It was impossible to make the leap again to the highersurface they had descended; unhampered, he must havebeen physically unfit. Behind them the cloudclosed over the Pass and the mountain top under whichthe Oriental Limited had stood. His companionno longer looked back; she moved as mechanically thoughless certainly than one who walks in sleep. Thefears that possessed him, that she herself had heldso finely in check when they had followed Banks onthis glacier, did not trouble her now. Her indifferenceto their extremity began to play on Frederic’sunhinged nerves. This white, blue-lipped womanwas not the Beatriz Weatherbee he had known; who hadclimbed the slope with him that morning, all exhilaration,spirit, charm; whose example had challenged his enduranceand held his courage to the sticking point.

“Why don’t you say something?” hecomplained. “Have you turned into ice?Now look where you step, can’t you? Deucedfix you got us into, dreaming there in the clouds,when Lucky Banks had left the spur. Come on, youbloodless ghost; come, or I’ll let you stay whereyou drop. Nice place to spend the night in.Almighty God!”

So, upbraiding her when she stumbled, blaming herfor their plight, threatening to leave her if sheshould fall, and flaying himself on with renewed panic,he brought her to the top of the double crevasse andthe prospector’s crossing. But here, withthe levels of the spur before them, her strength reachedlow ebb. This time he was not able to rouse her,and he threw down his alpenstock and took her in hisarms, and went slipping and recovering the remainingsteps. He stopped, winded, and stood her on herfeet, but her body sagged limply against him, and thesight of her still face terrified him. He carriedher a little farther, to the shelter of the crag,and laid her there. Then he dropped to his kneesbeside her, and grasping her shoulders shook her,at first slowly, then swiftly, with the roughnessof despair.

“Wake up,” he cried thickly. “Wakeup! Don’t you see we’re out of thathole? Come, Banks will be here any minute.Come, wake up.”

She made no response. The sun had set; it wasgrowing bitterly cold, and there was little protectionunder the crag. It was a place where cross windsmet. Torn fragments from the sea of cloud belowdrove against the pinnacle. It was like a loftyheadland breasting rolling surf. Frederic stooderect and sent his voice down through the smother ina great shout. It brought no answer, and he settledhelplessly on the shelf beside her. It beganto hail furiously, and he dropped his face, shieldingit in his arms.

The storm passed and, rousing himself, he searchedhis pockets vainly for a match to light his remainingcigar. Later he went through them again, hopingto find a piece of chocolate—he had carriedsome that morning—but this, too, was withoutresult. He fell to cursing the packer, for appropriatingthe port and tinned things that were missing at lunch-time.But after that he did not talk any more and, in a littlewhile, he stretched himself beside the unconsciousfigure at the foot of the crag. A second cloudlifted in a flurry of snow. Every hidden canyonsent out innumerable currents of air, and gales, meeting,lifted the powdery crust in swirls, wrapping themin a white sheet. Finally, from far off, minglingwith the skirling pipes of the wind came a different,human sound. And, presently, when the call—ifcall it was—was repeated, the man sat upand looked dully around. But he made no effortto reply. He waited, listening stupidly, andthe cry did not reach him again. Then, his glancefalling to the woman, a ray of intelligence leapedin his eyes. He rose on his knees and moved herso there was room for his own bulk between her bodyand the rock. He had then, when he stretchedhimself on the snow, a windbreak.

The wind rushed screaming into the vast spaces beyondthe mountain top, and returning, met the opposingforces from the canyon and instantly became a whirlwind.It cut like myriads of teeth; it struck two-edged withthe swish, slash of a sword; and it lifted the advancingcloud in a mighty swirl, bellied it as though it hadbeen a gigantic sail, and shook from its folds a delugeof hailstones followed by snow. Through it alla grotesque shape that seemed sometimes a huge, abnormalbeetle and sometimes a beast, worked slowly aroundthe crag, now crawling, now rearing upright with afutile napping of stiff wings, towards the two humanfigures. It was Lucky Banks, come to rescue them.

A heavier blast threw him on his face, but he roseto his knees and, creeping close, squared his shouldersto protect the slighter body. At the same timethe significance of the position of Morganstein’sunconscious bulk struck him. “You rat!”he cried with smothered fury. “You damnrat!”

Then he caught up a handful of snow with which hebegan to rub the woman’s face. Afterwardshe removed her gloves to manipulate her cold hands.He worked swiftly, with the deftness of practice,but the results were slow, and presently he took therug from the pack he carried and covered her whilehe felt in Frederic’s pockets for the flask hehad neglected to return. “Likely therewasn’t a drop left when she came to need it,you brute. And I’d like to leave you hereto take your chances. You can thank your luckI’ve got to use you.”

Banks keyed his voice high, between breaths, to out-scalethe wind, but he did not wait for a reply. Beforehe finished speaking, he had opened his big, keen-bladedclasp-knife and commenced to cut broad strips fromthe rug. He passed some of these, not withouteffort, under Morganstein’s body, trussing thearms. Then, wrapping the smaller figure snuglyin the blanket, he lifted it on to the human tobogganhe had made and bound it securely. Finally heconverted the shoulder-straps of his pack into a sortof steering gear, to which he fastened his life-line.

These preparations had been quickly made. Itwas not yet dark when he worked this sled over therim of the spur and began to descend the long slope.The violence of the wind was broken there, so thathe was able to travel erect, drawing his load.After a while, when the flurry of snow had passed,a crust formed on the surface, and in steeper pitcheshe was obliged to let the toboggan forge ahead, usinghimself as a drag. With the change to coldertemperature, there was no further danger of slides,and to avoid the avalanche that had turned Morgansteinback, the prospector shaped his course more directlyinto the canyon. Soon he was below the clouds;between their ragged edges a few stars appeared.Beyond a buttress shone a ruddy illumination.Some firs stood against it darkly. It was thefire Marcia and Elizabeth were watching at the placewhere he had cached the surplus supplies that morning.It served as a beacon when the crispness ceased, andfor an interval he was forced to mush laboriouslythrough soft drifts. Then he came to a first barespot. It was in crossing this rough ground thatFrederic showed signs of returning consciousness.But Banks gave him no attention. He had caughta strange sound on the wind. Others, far off,rose while he listened. Presently, looking backbeyond the end of the ridge that divided the uppergorge, he saw twinkling lights. They were thelanterns of the searchers at the wrecked train.

The little man did not exclaim. He did not pray.His was the anguish of soul which finds no expression.

CHAPTER XXVII

KISMET. AN ACT OF GOD

Afterwards, some who compared the slope where theOriental Limited had stood, with the terrible pitchesalong the lower switchback, said: “It wasFate;” and the defense in the damage suits againstthe Great Northern, which were decided in favor ofthe company, called that catastrophe at Cascade tunnel“An Act of God.” In either solution,the fact that counted was that no avalanche had occurredat this point before; mountain men had regarded itas absolutely safe. At noon that day, a rumorreached the stalled train that a slide at the fronthad struck one of the rotaries. Laborers, attheir own peril, had excavated the crew, but the plowwas out of commission, and the track was buried sixtyfeet under fresh tons of snow and rock and fallentimber. The Limited could not move within forty-eighthours, perhaps three days.

Tisdale picked up his bag and went out to the observationplatform. He knew that to attempt to follow therailroad through those swaths the avalanches had left,under the burned skeletons of trees ready to toppleat the first pressure of other bodies of snow, wasto take one’s life needlessly in his hands;but there was another way. The slope from thetrack at the portal dipped through a park of hemlockand fir, and the blaze that had swept the lower mountainsidehad not reached this timber; the great boughs, likefishers’ nets, supported their dripping accumulations.Also, at this altitude, there was no undergrowth.To make the drop directly into the canyon and followthe river down to Scenic Hot Springs meant littlemore to him than a bracing tramp of a few hours.

Snowshoes were a necessity, and the demand at thelittle station had long exceeded the supply, but theoperator was able to furnish the length of bale ropeTisdale asked of him. From the office door, wherehe had curiously followed to see the line put to use,he watched the traveler secure two pliable branchesof hemlock, of the same size, which he brought tothe station platform, and, having stripped them ofneedles, bent into ovals. Then, laying asideone, he commenced to weave half of the rope net-wise,filling the space in the frame he held. A suddenintelligence leaped in the agent’s face.“That’s simple enough,” he exclaimed.“And they’ll carry you as far as you wantto go.”

Tisdale smiled, nodding, and picked up the remainingframe.

“Strange I never saw any one try the schemebefore,” the operator commented. “I’veweathered a good many blockades up here; seen lotsof fellows, men whose time was money, bucking it outto open track. But I bet the first time thisidea struck you you were up against it. I betit’s a yarn worth listening to.”

Tisdale glanced up; the genial lines deepened.“It was a situation to clear a man’s head.There was snow from three to seven feet deep aheadof me and going soft. My snowshoes, lost withthe outfit at a hole in a Yukon crossing, were swingingdown-stream under the ice. I had two sea biscuitin my pocket and a few inches of dried venison, withthe nearest road-house over fifty miles away.”

“Well, that was hard luck,” the agentshook his head gravely.

“It was the best kind of luck,” respondedTisdale quickly, “to find myself with that ropein my hands and a nice little spruce on the bank tosupply frames enough for a regiment. I was rigginga kind of derrick to ease my sled up the sharp pitchfrom the crossing.”

“I see,” said the operator thoughtfully,“and the sled broke through. Lost it andthe outfit. But your dogs—saved them,didn’t you?”

“All but two.” Tisdale’s browscontracted. “They were dragged under theice before I could cut the traces. There was leatherenough on the leaders to bind those shoes on, but”—andthe humorous lines deepened again—“acouple of straps, from an old suitcase, if you happento have one, would be an improvement.”

The operator hurried into the office and, after avigorous search among the miscellaneous articles storedunder his desk, found an old valise, from which hedetached the desired straps. Tisdale adjustedthe improvised shoes. “I will send themback by a brakeman from Scenic Springs,” he said,rising from his seat on the edge of the platform.“You can keep them for a pattern.”

“All right,” the operator laughed.“If you do, I’ll have to lay in a stockof bale rope.”

It was beginning to snow again, big, soft flakes,and the wind, skimming the drifts, speedily filledthe broad, light rings Tisdale left in his wake.A passenger with a baby in his arms stood on the observationplatform, and the child held out its mittened handsto him, crowing, with little springs. They hadformed an acquaintance during the delay in the Rockies,which had grown to intimacy in the Cascades, and Hollisslipped the carrying strap of his bag over his shoulderand stopped to toss him a snowball, before he turnedfrom the track. “Good-by, Joey,” hesaid. “I am coming back for you if there’sa chance.”

The operator, shivering, closed the door. “Neversaw such a man,” he commented. “Butif he’s lived in Alaska, a Cascade blizzard wouldjust be a light breeze to him.” He pausedto put a huge stick of wood in the stove, then, afterthe habit of solitary humanity, resumed his soliloquy.“I bet he’s seen life. I bet, whoeverhe is, he’s somewheres near the top of the ladder.I bet, in a bunch of men, he does the thinking.And I bet what he wants, I don’t care what’spiled in his way, he gets.”

As he descended, the trees closed behind Tisdale,rank on rank, and were enveloped in the swaying curtainof the snow. Always a certain number surroundedhim; they seemed to march with him like a bodyguard.But he was oblivious of the peril that from the higherpeak had appeared so imminent to Lucky Banks.When the snow-cloud lifted, the Pass was still completelyveiled from him, and the peak the prospector’sparty had ascended was then cut off by the interveningridge. He had crossed the headwaters and wasworking along this slope down the watercourse, whenthe noise of the first avalanche startled the gorge.A little later a far shout came to his quick ear.He answered, but when another call reached him froma different point, high up beyond the ridge, he wassilent. He knew a company, separated in the neighborhoodof the slide, was trying to get into communication.Then, in the interval that he waited, listening, beganthe ominous roar of the mightier cataclysm. Themountain he had descended seemed to heave; its frontgave way; the ridge on which he stood trembled atthe concussion.

Instantly, before the clamor ceased and the firstcries reached him, Tisdale knew what had occurred.His sense of location told him. Then the factwas pressed on him that some on the unfortunate trainstill survived. He saw that the course he hadtaken from the west portal was no longer possible,but by keeping the curve of the ridge which joinedthe mountain slope and formed the top of the gorge,and by working upward, he should be able to gain theupper edge of the slide where rose the human sounds.He took this way. His shoulder, turned a little,met the lower boughs with the dip and push of thepracticed woodsman, and even on the up-grade the distancefell behind him swiftly. Always subconsciously,as he moved, he saw that baby crowing him a good-by,and the young father smiling Godspeed from the observationplatform; sometimes the girl mother with tender browneyes watched him from the background. Supposetheir coach, which had directly preceded the observationcar, had escaped; the snow-cloud, parting on the mountaintop, showed that the roofs of the station still remained.

After a while he noticed two men working downwardfrom the portal along the swath of the avalanche.One, he conjectured, was the operator, but they stoppedsome distance above him and commenced to remove sectionsof the debris. Then Hollis saw before him somebrilliant spots on the snow. They proved to beonly pieces of stained glass from a shattered transom.The side of the car with denuded window casings resteda few feet higher, and a corner of the top of thecoach protruded from under the fallen skeleton ofa fir. The voices now seemed all around him.Somewhere a man was shouting “Help!” Anothergroaned, cursing, and, deeper in the wreckage, rosea woman’s muffled, continuous screaming.But, nearer than the rest, a child was crying piteously.He reached the intact portion of the crushed roofand found the baby sitting unhurt on a clear breadthof snow. The body of the father was pinned hopelesslybeneath the tree, and the mother lay under the fragmentof roof, an iron bar on her tender eyes. It wasas though Destiny, having destroyed them, whimsicallythrew a charmed circle around this remaining atomof the family.

“Well, Joey,” Tisdale said quietly, “I’vecome back for you.”

Instantly the child stopped crying and turned to listen;then, seeing Tisdale, he began to crow, rocking hislittle body and catching up handsful of snow to demonstratehis delight. The hands and round bud of a mouthwere blue.

“Cold, isn’t it, Joey?” And he tookthe baby in his arms. “We can’t findyour coat and mittens, but here is a nice blanket.”

He stooped, as he spoke, and pulled the blanket fromunder a broken door, and the child nestled its facein his neck, telling him in expressive, complainingsounds the story of his terror and discomfort.

A man burrowed out of the snow above the log.His leg was injured, but he began to creep, draggingit, in the direction of the woman’s voice.“I’m coming, Mary,” he cried.“For God’s sake, stop.”

Tisdale picked up a strip from the broken door andhurried to his aid. He put the child down andused the board as a shovel, and Joey, watching fromthe peephole in his blanket, laughed and crowed again.Up the slope the operator and his companion had extricateda brakeman, who, forgetting his own injuries, joinedthe little force of rescuers.

At last the cries ceased. Haste was no longerimperative. The remaining coaches were buriedunder tons of snow and debris. Weeks of labor,with relays of men, might not reach them all.And it was time to let the outside world know.The telephone lines were down, the telegraph out ofcommission, and Tisdale, with the baby to bear himcompany, started to carry the news to Scenic Hot Springs.

It had grown very cold when he rounded the top ofthe gorge. The arrested thaw hung in myriadsof small icicles on every bough; they changed to rubieswhen the late sun blazed out briefly; the trees seemedstrung with gems; the winds that gathered on the highdome above the upper canyon rushed across the summitof the ridge. They fluted every pipe, and, asthough it were an enchanted forest, all the small pendantson all the branches changed to striking cymbals andsilver bells. The baby slept as warm and safein his blanket as though he had not left his mother’sarms.

Once there came a momentary lull, and on the silence,far off—so far it seemed hardly more thana human breath drifting with the lighter current thatstill set towards him from the loftier peak—Tisdaleheard some one calling him. His pulses missedtheir beat and raced on at fever heat. He believed,in that halting instant, it was Beatriz Weatherbee.Then the gale, making up for the pause, swept downin fury, and he hurried under the shelter of the ridgewith the child. He told himself there had beenno voice; it was an illusion. That the catastrophe,following so closely on his illness, had unhingedhim a little. The Morganstein party had doubtlessreturned to Seattle at the beginning of the thaw; andeven had Mrs. Weatherbee remained at Scenic Springs,it was not probable she had strayed far from the comfortand safety of the hotel. And recalling that nightshe had passed in the Wenatchee mountains, he smiled.

As twilight fell, a ruddy illumination outlined theridge. He conjectured that the men he had heardearly in the afternoon in the vicinity of the firstslide were a party of belated hunters, who had campedin the upper canyon. They must have known ofthe greater avalanche; possibly of the disaster.They may have sent a messenger to the Springs and kindledthis beacon to guide any one who might choose thisway to bring the news from the portal. At leastthey would be able to direct him to the shortest out;serve him the cup of coffee of which he was in need.So, coming to the end of the ridge where the canyonsmet, he turned in the direction of the fire, and found—twowaiting women.

Their presence alone was an explanation. Mrs.Feversham had only to say Lucky Banks had led theirparty, in the ascent of the peak that brilliant morning,and instantly everything was clear to Tisdale.The voice he had heard from the top of the ridge wasnot an illusion. She had called him.

“It was snowing,” he said, interruptingthe story, “but if they left the shadow of atrail, Banks found it. There are two of them,though, and up there—it’s cold.”Then, having gone a few steps, he remembered the childand came back to put him in Elizabeth’s arms.“His father and mother are dead,” he explainedbriefly, “but he hasn’t a bruise.When he wakes, he is going to be hungry.”

So, forgetting those wearing hours of rescue work,and without the coffee for which he had intended toask, he started on the prospector’s trail.In a little while, as he skirted the foot of the slide,he heard a great commotion on the slope beyond.It was Lucky Banks easing his human toboggan downthe last pitch to the canyon floor.

The two men stood a silent moment scanning each otherin the uncertain light across that load. Tisdale’seyes were searching for an answer to the questionhe could not ask, but the prospector, breathing hard,was trying to cover the emotion Tisdale’s unexpectedappearance had roused.

“Hello, Hollis,” he said at last.“Is that you? I had to see after Dave’swife, but I thought likely, when I got her to camp,I’d take a little hike up to the tunnel andlook you up.”

But Tisdale, not finding the answer for which he looked,sank to his knee beside the load and loosened thestraps. Then he lifted a corner of the rug thatprotected her face, and at the sight of it, so white,so still, his heart cried. “Little soldier!”he said over and over and, as though he hoped to warmthem, laid his cheek gently to her blue lips.“You called me! I heard you. I failedyou, too!”

Then a fluttering breath steadied him. Instantlythe iron in the man cropped through. He felther pulse, her heart, as though she had been somestranger from the unfortunate train and, moving herto a level place, fixed her head low and began firmly,with exceeding care, those expedients to eliminatethe frost and start the circulation that Banks hadalready hurriedly tried. His great, warm personalityenfolded her; he worked tirelessly, as though he wasdetermined to infuse her numb veins with his own vigor.When the prospector would have aided him, he wishedto do everything alone, and directed the miner’sattention to Frederic Morganstein, who showed signsof returning consciousness.

But the intrepid little man failed to respond.“I guess likely he will pull through,”he said dryly. “He had a pretty good shakingup coming down, and I’d better run around tocamp and get a bottle of port I cached this morning.The snipe got away with my flask; used the last drop,likely, before she needed it.” His voicetook a higher pitch, and he added over his shoulder,as he started in the direction of the fire: “Hemade a windbreak of her.”

When he returned presently with the wine, Fredericwas filling the night with his complaints and groans.But neither of the men gave him any attention.That was left for Marcia, who had followed the prospector.

Beatriz Weatherbee was still unconscious. Shewas carried to the camp and laid in a sheltered placeremote from the fire. Then Lucky Banks volunteeredto go to Scenic Springs with the news of the traindisaster, and to bring an extra man with lanternsand a stretcher. He was well on the way whenMorganstein crept in. Marcia found him a seaton the end of a log and, wrapping the cached rug abouthim, regaled him with the recovered portion of theluncheon. But it was long after that when BeatrizWeatherbee’s eyelids fluttered open. Tisdaledrew a little more into the shadows, waiting, andthe first to come within her range of vision was thechild. He was sitting on his blanket in the strongglow, and just beyond him Elizabeth, who had founda tin of cream in the cache and had been feeding him,was putting away the cup. Joey faced the wakingwoman and, catching her look, he put out his hands,rocking gayly, and crowed. Instantly a flashof intelligence lighted her face. She smiled andtried to stretch out her arms. “Come!”she said.

Elizabeth caught up the child and placed him besideher on the rug. He put out his soft, moist fingers,touching her face curiously, with gathering doubt.Then, satisfied this was not his mother, as in theuncertain light he must have supposed, he drew backwith a whimper and clung to Elizabeth.

At the same moment Mrs. Weatherbee’s smile changedto disappointment. “His eyes are brown,Elizabeth,” she said, “and my baby’swere blue, like mine.” And she turned herface, weeping; not hysterically, like a woman physicallyunstrung, but with the slow, deep sobs of a woman whohas wakened from a dream of one whom she has greatlyloved—and buried.

CHAPTER XXVIII

SURRENDER

Tisdale had not seen Beatriz Weatherbee since shehad been brought semi-conscious from the foot of themountain, but he learned from the hotel physicianthe following morning that she was able to travel onthe special train which was coming from Seattle totransport the Morganstein party home. The firstinquiry, after news of the disaster reached the outsideworld, was from Joey’s grandfather, a lumbermanon Puget Sound. Put in communication with Tisdale,he telephoned he would arrive at the Springs on thespecial. So, leaving the child in charge of thehousekeeper, Hollis returned to the west portal, tojoin the little force of rescuers. It was thenno longer a question of life-saving, but of identification.The Swiss chalet, which had ceased to be the meccaof pleasure-seekers, had become a morgue.

But Lucky Banks, who went with him, had received amessage from Mrs. Weatherbee, and in the intervalthat Tisdale was busy with long-distance and disposingof Joey, the prospector went up to her room. Shewas pale and very weak, but she smiled as he approachedher couch and held out her hand. “No, theright one,” she said, and added, taking it witha gentle pressure, “I know, now, what it is—tobe cold.”

The little man nodded. His face worked, and hehurried to conceal the maimed hand in his pocket.“But the doctor says you’ll pull throughgood as new,” he commented. “I amproud to know that; my, yes.”

“And I am proud of you, Mr. Banks. It seemsincredible, but Miss Morganstein told me you rescuedher brother, too. I’ve tried and tried toremember, but I am not able. You must have carriedme, at least, all of the way.”

Banks glanced at Elizabeth, who was seated beyondthe couch. She had laid a warning finger to herlips and shook her head. “That was deadeasy coming downgrade,” he answered. “Andthat little blow up there on the mountain top wasn’tanything to speak of, alongside a regular Alaska blizzard.If I’d had to weight my pockets with rocks, thatwould have been something doing. I might havefelt then that I was squaring myself with Dave Weatherbee.”

“I understand,” she said slowly, “but,”and she smiled again, “I am grateful, Mr. Banks,just the same. Perhaps, since you loved Davidso much, you will regard it as a kind of compensationthat I am going on with the project.”

“Is that so?” The little man beamed.“Well, the house is all done and waiting, my,yes, whenever you are ready to move over.”

“Why, Beatriz,” said Elizabeth in alarm,“I am going to take that desert tract off yourhands. I’ve been interested in reclamationwork for months.” And looking at Banks,she added significantly: “I am afraid sheis talking too much.”

“Likely,” replied the prospector, rising,“and I am due to take a little hike up the canyonwith Hollis Tisdale.”

“Mr. Tisdale?” she asked, with a quickbrightening of her face. “Then he is quitewell again. Miss Morganstein told me he was saved—fromthat unfortunate train,” and she added, shiveringand closing her eyes, “I remember—that.”

“I couldn’t have got there in time,”Banks hurried to explain, “even if you had givenup making the summit. Likely I’d have gotcaught by the slide, and Hollis was half-way to theSprings and ‘feeling fit as a moose’ whenit started. Well, good-by, ma’am; take careof yourself.”

“Good-by, Mr. Banks,” and she smiled oncemore. “You may expect me at HesperidesVale in a few days; as soon as my things at VivianCourt are packed.” And she added, withthe color softly warming her cheek, “Mr. Tisdalemight like to know that. He always wished to seeDavid’s project carried through.”

And the little man replied from the door: “I’lltell him, ma’am, my, yes.”

The special, which brought other seekers besides Joey’sgrandfather, also conveyed Jimmie Daniels. Itwas his last assignment with the Press; heand Geraldine were to be married within the week andassume the editorial position at Weatherbee.And he pushed up over Tisdale’s trail, now becomewell broken, eager to make a final scoop and his bestone. Hours later, when he should have been backat Scenic Hot Springs, rushing his copy through tohis paper, he still remained on the slope below thewest portal to carry out the brief and forceful instructionsof the man who directed and dominated everybody; whoknew in each emergency the one thing to do. OnceJimmie found himself aiding Banks to wrap a woman’sbody in a blanket to be lowered by tackle down themountainside. She was young, not older than Geraldine,and the sight of her—rounded cheek, dimpledchin, arm so beautifully molded—all withthe life snuffed out without a moment’s warning—gavehim a sensation of being smothered. He was seizedwith a compelling desire to get away, and to conquerhis panic, he asked the prospector whether this manwas not the superintendent of the mountain division.

The mining man replied: “No, that’sthe railroad boss over there with the gang handlingthe derrick; this is Tisdale, Hollis Tisdale of Alaskaand Washington, D.C. You ought to have heardof him in your line of business if you never happenedto see him before.”

Then Jimmie, turning to look more directly at thestranger, hastily dropped his face. “Youare right,” he said softly, “I’veknown him by sight some time.”

Afterwards, while they were having coffee with thestation master, Daniels asked Banks how he and Tisdalehappened to be at Cascade Tunnel. “I wasputting in a little time at the Springs,” Banksresponded, “but Hollis was a passenger on thestalled train. He took a notion to hike down tothe hotel just ahead of the slide.”

“You mean that man who has taken charge outthere,” exclaimed the operator. “Ihad a talk with him before he started; he was riggingup some snowshoes. He said he was from Alaska,and I put him down for one of those bonanza kings.”

“He is,” said Banks in his high key.“What he don’t know about minerals ain’tworth knowing, and he owns one of the finest layoutsin the north, Dave Weatherbee’s bore.”

“The Aurora mine,” confirmed Daniels.“And I presume there isn’t a man betterknown, or as well liked, in Alaska.”

Banks nodded. “Dave and him was a team.The best known and the best liked in the whole country.And likely there’s men on the top seats in Washington,D.C., would be glad of a chance to shake hands withHollis Tisdale.”

“I knew he was somewhere near the top,”commented the operator. “He can handlemen. I never saw such a fellow. Why, he musthave got half-way to the Springs when the slide started,but he was back, climbing up along the edge of itto the wreck, almost before it quit thundering.And he took out a live baby, without a damage mark,and all its folks lying right there dead, before therest of us got in earshot.”

Daniels put down his sandwich and took out his neglectednotebook. He gathered all the detail the readyoperator could supply: how Tisdale had wrappedthe child in a blanket and carried him from place toplace, talking to him in his nice, friendly way, amusinghim, keeping him quiet, while he worked with the strengthof two men to liberate other survivors. And how,when none was left to save, he had taken the baby inhis arms and gone to break trail to the Springs tosend out news of the disaster. All that the stationmaster and Banks could not tell him, with the nameand prominence of Joey’s family, Jimmie addedlater at the chalet, and he finished with a skilfulreference to the papoose, killed by accident so manyyears before. It was a great story. It wentinto the paper as it stood. And when the daycame to leave the Press office, the chief,shaking hands with his “novelist,” saidit was a fine scoop, and he had always known Jimmiehad it in him to make good; he was sorry to lose him.But the Society Editor, reading between the lines,told him it was the greatest apology he could havemade. She was proud of him.

At Vivian Court late that afternoon, Elizabeth readthe story to Beatriz Weatherbee. Her couch wasdrawn into the sunny alcove, where, from her pillows,she might watch the changing light on Mount Rainier.Finally, when Elizabeth finished, Beatriz broke thesilence. “He must have passed down thecanyon while we were there.”

“Yes, he did. He carried one end of yourstretcher all the way to the Springs.”Then Elizabeth asked: “Don’t you rememberthe baby, either? He had brown eyes.”

“I seem to remember a child,” she answeredslowly, “a baby sitting in the firelight, but”—andshe shook her head, “I’ve dreamed so manydreams.”

“He was a fact; a perfect dear. I shouldhave adopted him, if his relatives hadn’t beenso prominent and rich. And you, too, fell instantlyin love with him. You wanted him in your armsthe moment you opened your eyes.”

Elizabeth paused with a straight look from under herheavy brows and while she hesitated there was a knockat the door. She threw it open and a porter broughtin one of those showy Japanese shrubs in an ornatejardiniere, such as Frederic Morganstein so often usedas an expression of his regard. His card hungby a ribbon from a branch, like a present on a Christmastree, and when the boy had gone, she untied it andcarried it to Mrs. Weatherbee. “I wishyou could marry Frederic and settle it all,”she said. “Japan is lovely in the spring.”

Beatriz, who had taken the card indifferently, allowedit to drop without reading it. Her glance restedagain on the shining dome.

“I told him I would ask you to see him a fewmoments to-night,” Elizabeth resumed. “Heis feeling miserably. He says he was ill whenwe made the ascent that day and never should haveleft the hotel; his high temperature and the altitudeaffected his head. He believes he must have saidthings that offended or frightened you—thingshe wasn’t responsible for.” She paused,then, for a woman who had been so schooled to holdherself in hand as Elizabeth Morganstein, went onuncertainly: “He is just a plain businessman, used to going straight to a point, but not manymen care so much for a woman as he does for you.You could mold him like wax. He says all he wantsnow—if he did make a mistake—isa chance to wipe it out; start with a clean slate.”

Mrs. Weatherbee rose from the couch. She stooda moment meeting Elizabeth’s earnest look.The shadow of a smile touched her mouth, but well-springsof affection brimmed her eyes. “We cannotwipe out our mistakes, dear,” she said.“They are indelible. We have to accept them,study them, use them as a rule from which to work outthe problems of our lives. There is no goingback, no starting over, if we have missed an easierway. Elizabeth, in one hour on that mountain Isaw more of the true Frederic Morganstein than inall the years I had known him before. In thegreat moments of life, I should have no influence withhim. Even for your sake, dear, I could not marryhim. I do not want to see him any more.”

There was a silence, then Elizabeth said: “Inthat case, I am going to ease things for you.I am going to buy that desert land. Now, don’tsay a word. I am going to pay you Lucky Banks’price, and, of course, for the improvements whateveris right.”

“But it is not on the market,” repliedBeatriz. “I told you I had decided to livethere. I hoped—you would like to gowith me. For awhile, at least, you might findit interesting.”

Elizabeth tried to dissuade her. It was ridiculous.It was monstrous. She was not strong enough.It would be throwing her life away, as surely as totransplant a tender orchid to that burning sage-brushcountry. But in the end she said: “Well,Bee, then I’ll go with you.”

CHAPTER XXIX

BACK TO HESPERIDES VALE

The Mayor of Weatherbee stopped his new, six-passengercar at the curb in front of the completed brick block;not at the corner which was occupied by the Merchants’National Bank, but at the adjoining entrance, abovewhich shone the neat gilt sign: “MadameLucile’s.” He stood for a momentsurveying the window display, which was exceedinglyup-to-date, showing the prevailing color scheme ofgreen or cerise in the millinery, softened by a backgroundof mauve and taupe in the arrangement of the gowns.A card, placed unobtrusively in the corner of theplate glass, announced that Madame Lucile, formerlywith Sedgewick-Wilson of Seattle, was prepared togive personal attention to all orders.

Bailey himself that day was equipped in a well-madesuit from the tailoring establishment on the oppositeside of the building. Though he had not yet gatheredthat avoirdupois which is associated with the dignityof office, there was in his square young frame an undeniablepromise. Already he carried himself with thedeliberation of a man whose future is assured, andhis mouth took those upward curves of one who is humorouslysatisfied with himself and his world.

There were no customers when he entered, and sinceit was the hour when her assistant was out at lunch,Madame, attired in a gown of dark blue velvet, herblack hair arranged with elaborate care, was alonein the shop. And Bailey’s glance, havingtraveled the length of the soft green carpet to thefarthest mirror, returned in final approval to her.“This certainly is swell,” he said, “It’slike a sample right out of Chicago. But I knewyou could do it, the minute Mrs. Banks mentioned you.Why, the first time I saw you—it was onthe street the day I struck Wenatchee—Itold myself: ’This town can’t be verywild and woolly if it can turn out anything as classyas that.’”

Madame laughed. “I must have looked likea moving fashion plate to attract attention that way.I feel a little over-dressed now, after wearing theuniform in Sedgewick-Wilson’s so long; but Mrs.Banks said I ought to wear nice clothes to advertisethe store.”

Bailey tipped back his head at that, laughing softly.“I guess your silent partner is going to bethe power behind the throne, all right.”

Madame nodded, with the humor still lingering in herbrown eyes. “But it was good advice.I sold a gown like this to my first customer thismorning. And she had only come in to see millinery;she hadn’t meant to look at gowns. Butshe liked this one the moment she saw it.”

“Is that so? Well, I don’t wonder.It certainly looks great—on you.”

Madame flushed and turned her face to look off throughthe plate glass door. “Why,” sheexclaimed, “you didn’t tell me your newautomobile had come.” She moved a few steps,sweeping the car with admiring eyes. “Isn’tit luxurious though, and smart? But you deserveit; you deserve everything that’s coming toyou now, staying here, sticking it out as you havein the heat and sand. I often thought of it summerdays while I was over on the Sound.”

“You did?” questioned Bailey in pleasedsurprise. “Well, I am glad to know that.I wonder whether you ever thought over the time wetramped the railroad ties up to Leavenworth to thatlittle dance?”

“Often,” she responded quickly. “Andhow we came back in the Oleson wagon, riding behindwith our heels hanging over, and the dust settlinglike powder on our party clothes. But I had theloveliest time. It was the starriest night, withmoonlight coming home, and I danced every number.”

“Seven times with me,” returned the mayor.

“I wanted to learn the two-step,” sheexplained hastily.

“And I wanted to teach you,” he laughed.“But say, how would you like to take a littlespin up the Leavenworth road this evening, in the newcar?”

“Oh, that would be delightful.” MadameLucile glowed. “With a party?” sheasked.

“Well, I thought of asking Daniels and his wifeto go with us. I am on the way to the stationnow, to meet them. And Mrs. Weatherbee and MissMorganstein are due on the same train. I promisedMr. Banks I would take them out to the Orchards inthe machine; but we are to motor around to the newbungalow first, to leave the bride and Jimmie and haveluncheon.”

“I know. Mrs. Banks is going to have thetable in that wide veranda looking down the river.I would like to be there when they find out that dearlittle bungalow is their wedding present. It wasperfectly lovely of Mrs. Banks to think of it; andof you to give them that beautiful lot on the point.You can see Hesperides Vale for miles and miles tothe lower gap.”

Bailey smiled. “Mrs. Banks said it wasa good way to use up the lumber that was left overfrom the ranch house. And that bungalow certainlymakes a great showing for the town. It raisedthe value of the adjoining lots. I sold threebefore the shingles were on the walls, and the peoplewho bought them thought they had a snap.”

“All the same, it is a lovely present,”said Madame Lucile.

“There’s the train, whistling up the valley,”said the mayor, but he paused to ask, almost withdiffidence, as he turned to the door: “Say,what do you think of this tie?”

“I like it.” She nodded, with a reassuringsmile. “And it’s a nice shade foryou; it brings out the blue in your eyes.”

The mayor laughed gaily. “I ought to wearit steady after that, but I am coming to black oneswith a frock coat and silk hat. I am going tobegin to-morrow, when those German scientists, ontheir way home from the Orient, stop to see HesperidesVale.”

“Oh, I hope you will wear this nice businesssuit, unless they come late in the afternoon.It seems more sensible here on the edge of the desert,and even if you are the first mayor to do it, I know,the world over, there isn’t another as young.”

Bailey grew thoughtful. “The mayor in Chicagoalways wore a Prince Albert. Why, that long coatand silk hat stood for the office. They were themost important part of him. But good-by,”he said hastily, as the train whistled again, nearer,“I’ll call for you at seven.”

Ten minutes later, the mayor stood on the stationplatform shaking hands with Mrs. Weatherbee.“Say, I am surprised,” he said. “Ioften wondered what you thought of the vale.Lighter told me how you drove those colts throughthat day, and I was disappointed not to hear from you.You didn’t let me know you had an investmentalready, and it never occurred to me, afterwards,that you were our Mrs. Weatherbee.”

Then, introductions being over, he assisted Miss Morgansteininto the tonneau with the bridal couple and gave theseat in front to Mrs. Weatherbee. He drove veryslowly up the new thoroughfare, past the Bailey building,where she expressed her astonishment at the invitingwindow display of the millinery store. He explainedthat offices for the Weatherbee Record hadbeen reserved on the second floor, and that in thehall, in the third story, the first inaugural ballwas to be given the following night. It had beenpostponed a few days until her arrival, and he hopedhe might have the privilege of leading the grand marchwith her. And, Mrs. Weatherbee having thankedhim, with the pleasure dancing in her eyes, Baileypointed out the new city hospital, a tall, airy structure,brave in fresh paint, which was equipped with a residentphysician and three trained nurses, including MissPurdy, the milliner’s sister, who was on herway from Washington to join the force.

After that they motored through the residence district,and Mrs. Weatherbee expressed greater wonder and delightat the rows of thrifty homes, each with its breadthof green lawn and budding shrubbery, where hardlysix months ago had been unreclaimed acres of sage.And so, at last, they came to the city park, wherethe road wound smooth and firm between broad stretchesof velvety green, broken by beds of blossoming tulips,nodding daffodils, clumps of landscape foliage puttingforth new leaves. Sprinklers, supplied by a limpidcanal that followed the drive, played here, there,everywhere, and under all this moisture and the warmrays of the spring sun, the light soil teemed withawakening life. Then, finally, the car skirteda low, broad mound, in which was set the source ofthe viaduct, a basin of masonry, brimming with watercrystal clear and fed by two streams that gushed froma pedestal of stone on the farther rim. “Howbeautiful!” she exclaimed. “How incredible!And there is to be a statue to complete it. Afaun, a water nymph, some figure to symbolize the spiritof the place.”

“I can’t tell you much about the statue,”replied Bailey, watching the curve ahead. “Mr.Banks engaged the sculptor; some noted man in the east.He is carrying the responsibility; it was his idea.But it was to have been in place, ready to be unveiledby the fifteenth, and there was some delay.”

After that, the mayor was silent, devoting his attentionto the speeding car. They left the park and,taking the river road, arrived presently at the bungalow.The shingles still lacked staining, the roof was incomplete,but a sprinkler threw rainbow mist over the new lawn,which was beginning to show shades of green.A creeper, planted at the corner of the veranda, alreadysent out pale, crinkled shoots.

Lucky Banks came beaming down the steps, and Annabel,in a crisp frock of royal blue taffeta, stood smilinga welcome as the automobile stopped. Then Bailey,springing down to throw open the door of the tonneau,lifted his voice to say: “And this—isthe home of the Editor of the Weatherbee Recordand Mrs. Daniels.”

They did not at once grasp his meaning, and the prospectormade it clear as they went up to the veranda.“The house is a wedding present from Mrs. Banks,”he said; “and Mr. Bailey, here, put up the lot,so’s I thought this would come in handy; itwill take quite a bunch of furniture.”

There was a silent moment while Geraldine stood regardingthe envelope he had put in her hand. She waslooking her best in a trim, tailored suit of gray.There was a turquoise facing to the brim of her smartgray hat, but her only ornaments were a sorority pinfastened to the lapel of her coat and a gold buttonthat secured her watch in the small breast pocket madefor it. At last she looked up, an unusual flushwarmed her face, and she began: “It’sperfectly lovely of you—we are so surprised—wenever can thank you enough.”

But Jimmie turned away. He stood looking downthe valley in the direction of that place, not veryfar off, where his mother had carried water up thesteep slope in the burning desert sun. His foreheadcreased; he closed his lips tight over a rising sob.Then Geraldine laid her hand on his arm. “Doyou understand what these people have done for us?”she asked unconventionally. “Did you hear?”

Jimmie swung around. His glance met Annabel’s.“I can’t explain how I feel about it,”he burst out, “but I know if my mother couldhave been here now, it—this—wouldhave paid her for all—she missed. Idon’t deserve it—but Geraldine does;and I pledge myself to stay by the Weatherbee Recordas long as you want me to. I don’t see howI can help making good.”

Then Annabel, winking hard, hastily led the way overthe house; and, presently, when the party returnedto the table in the veranda, and the Japanese boyshe had brought from the ranch house was successfullypassing the fried chicken, she wanted to know aboutthe wedding.

“Yes, we tried to have it quiet,” respondedJimmie, “and we planned it so the taxi wouldjust make our train; but the fellows caught on andwere waiting for us at the station, full force, withtheir pocketfuls of rice and shoes. They hardlylet us get aboard.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Annabel. “Youmight as well have been married in church. You’dhave looked pretty in a train and veil,” shesaid, addressing Geraldine, who was seated on herright. “Not but what you don’t looknice in gray. And I like your suit real well;it’s a fine piece of goods; the kind to standthe desert dust. But I would have liked to seeyou in white, with a blaze of lights and decorationsand a crowd.”

Geraldine laughed. “We had a nice littlewedding, and the young men from the office made upfor their noise. They gave the porter a handsomecase of silver at the last moment, to bring to me.”

“And,” supplemented Jimmie, “therewas a handsome silver tea service from the chief.He told her she had been a credit to the staff, andhe would find it hard to replace her. Think ofthat coming from the head of a big daily. Itmakes me feel guilty. But she is to have fulllatitude in the new paper; society, clubs, equal suffrageif she says so; anything she writes goes with theWeatherbee Record.”

“If I were you, I’d have that down inwriting.” Annabel looked from Daniels tothe bride, and her lip curled whimsically. “Theyall talk that way at first, as though the earth turnedround for one woman, and the whole crowd ought tostop to watch her go by. He pretends, so far ashe is concerned, she can stump the county for prohibitionor lead the suffragette parade, but, afterwards, hegets to taking the other view. Instead of thankinghis lucky stars the nicest girl in the world pickedhim out of the bunch, he begins to think she naturallywas proud that the best one wanted her. Then,before they’ve been married two years, he startstrying to make her over into some other kind of a woman.Why, I know one man right here in Hesperides Valewho set to making a Garden of Eden out of a sandholein the mountains, just because it belonged to a certaingirl.” She paused an instant, while herglance moved to Banks, and the irony went out of hervoice. “He could have bought the finestfruit ranch in the valley, all under irrigation andcoming into bearing, for he had the money, but hewent to wasting it on that piece of unreclaimed sagedesert. And now that he has got it all in shape,he’s talking of opening a big farm in Alaska.”

Banks laughed uneasily. “The boys needit up there,” he said in his high key.“Besides, I always get more fun out of makingnew ground over. It’s such mighty goodsoil here in Hesperides Vale things grow themselvessoon’s the water is turned on. It don’tleave a man enough to do. And we could take alittle run down to the ranch, any time; we could counton always wintering here, my, yes.”

Annabel smiled. “He thinks by mid-summerhe can take me right into the interior, in that crankyred car. And I don’t know but what I amready to risk it; there are places I’d liketo see—where he was caught his first winterin a blizzard, and where he picked up the nuggets formy necklace. You remember it—don’tyou?—Mrs. Daniels. I wore it that nightin Seattle we went to hear Carmen.”

“I certainly do remember. It was the mostwonderful thing in the theater that night, and fitfor an empress.” Involuntarily Geraldineglanced down at her own solitary jewel. It flasheda lovely blue light as she moved her hand.

Annabel followed the glance. “Your ringis a beauty,” she said. “Not manyyoung men, just starting in business for themselves,would have thought they could afford a diamond likethat.”

Geraldine laughed, flushing a little. “Itseems the finest in the world to me,” she repliedalmost shyly. “And it ought to show higherlight and color than any other; the way it was boughtwas so splendid.”

“Do you mean the way the money was earned tobuy it?” inquired Annabel.

Geraldine nodded. “It was the price, exactly,of his first magazine story. Perhaps you readit. It was published in the March issue of Sampson’s,and the editors liked it so well they asked to seemore of his work.”

Jimmie looked at his wife in mingled protest and surprise.He had believed she, as well as himself, had wishedto have that story quickly forgotten. “Itis an Indian story,” she pursued; “abouta poor little papoose that was accidentally killed.It was a personal experience of Mr. Tisdale’s.”

Mrs. Banks had not read it, but the prospector pushedaside his sherbet glass and, laying his arms on thetable, leaned towards Geraldine. “Was thatpapoose cached under a log?” he asked softly.“And was its mother berrying with a bunch ofsquaws up the ridge?”

“Yes,” smiled Geraldine. “Isee you have read it.”

“No, but I heard a couple of men size it upaboard the train coming from Scenic Hot Springs.And once,” he went on with gathering tenseness,“clear up the Tanana, I heard Dave and Hollistalking it over. My, yes, it seems like I cansee them now; they was the huskiest, cleanest-cut,openest-faced team that ever mushed a trail. Itwas one of those nights when the stars come closeand friendly, and the camp-fire blazes and cracklesstraight to heaven and sets a man thinking; and Tisdalestarted it by saying if he could cut one record outof his past he guessed the rest could bear daylight.Then Dave told him he was ready to stand by that one,too. And Hollis said it was knowing that had takenthe edge off, but it hadn’t put the breath backinto that papoose. Of course he never suspicionedfor a minute the kid was in the road when he jumpedthat log, and the heart went out of him when he pickedit up and saw what he was responsible for. They

had to tell me the whole story, and I wish you couldhave heard ’em. Dave smoothing things whenHollis got too hard on himself, and Hollis chippingin again for fear I wouldn’t get full weightfor Dave’s part. And the story sure enoughdoes hinge on him. Likely that’s why Tisdalegave it to your magazine; to show up Dave Weatherbee.But those men on the train—they had theseat in front of me so’s I heard it plain—losttheir bearings. They left out Dave and put Hollisin a bad light. He was ’caught red-handedand never was brought to an honest trial.’And it was clear besides, being ’hand in glovewith the Secretary of the Interior’ he had a‘pull with the Federal court.’ I couldn’tstand for it.” The prospector’s voicereached high pitch, his forehead creased in many finelines, his eyes scintillated their blue glacier lights,and he added, striking the table with his clenchedhand, “I up and says: ’It’sall a damn lie.’”

There was a silence. The self-possession andswiftness of the Japanese boy saved the sherbet glassand its contents, but the mayor, who had been interruptedin a confidential quotation of real estate values toMiss Morganstein, sat staring at Banks in amazement.A spark of admiration shot through the astonishmentin Annabel’s eyes then, catching the little man’saggressive glance, she covered her pride with her ironicalsmile. Mrs. Weatherbee was the only one who didnot look at Banks. Her inscrutable face was turnedto the valley. She might never have heard of HollisTisdale or, indeed, of David. But Elizabeth, whohad kept the thread of both conversations, said:“You were right. There was a coroner’sinquest that vindicated Mr. Tisdale at the time.”

“But,” explained Geraldine courageously,“that was left out of the magazine. Mr.Daniels took it all accurately, just as Mr. Tisdaletold it, word for word; but the story was cut terribly.Nothing at all was said of Mr. Weatherbee’spart. We couldn’t understand that, for withnames suppressed, there could be no motive, and hewas so clearly the leading character. But magazineshave no conscience. It’s anything, withthe new ones at least, to catch the public eye, andthey stir more melodrama into their truths than theyellow journals do. But Mr. Daniels apologizedto Mr. Tisdale, and explained how he wasn’tresponsible for the editor’s note or for printinghis name, and he did his best to make it up in hisreport of the disaster at Cascade tunnel. Thatstory went into the Press straight and hasbeen widely copied.”

It was in Jimmie’s favor that Lucky Banks hadread the newspaper story, and also that they had hadthose hours of intimacy at the west portal. “Well,likely you ain’t to blame,” the prospectoradmitted finally, “but there’s peoplewho don’t know Hollis Tisdale that might believewhat the magazine says. And, if I was you, I’dtake a little run over to Washington or New York,wherever it is—I’ll put up the money—andlocate that editor. I’d make him fix itright, my, yes.”

“I should be glad to,” said Daniels, brightening,“but it’s possible those missing pageswere lost on the way.”

“Well, I’d find out,” persistedBanks. “And there’s other storiesI got wind of when I was in Washington, D.C., andSeattle, too, last time I was down, that ought tobe trailed. Maybe it’s just politics, butI know for a fact they ain’t so.”

The irony had gone out of Annabel’s face.She had seen Hollis Tisdale but once, yet his comingand going had marked the red-letter day of her life.Her heart championed Banks’ fight for him.She turned her dark eyes from him to Daniels.

“It’s too bad you tried to tell HollisTisdale’s story for him,” she said.“Even if the magazine had got it all straight,it wouldn’t have been the same as getting itfirst hand. It’s like listening to one ofthose fine singers in a phonograph; you can get thetune and some of the words, and maybe the voice prettyfair, but you miss the man.”

With this she rose. “We are ready to goout to the Orchards, Mr. Bailey. Mr. Banks andI are going to change places with the bride and groom.”Then from her silk bag, she brought forth a bunchof keys which she gave to Geraldine. “Nukuiis going to stay to clear away,” she explained,“and bring our car home. And when you havefinished making your plans, and want to go down tosee the newspaper office, he will show you a nice shortcut through the park.”

So again the mayor’s chocolate six-passengercar threaded the park and emerged this time on a straight,broad thoroughfare through Hesperides Vale. “This,”said Bailey, turning from the town, “is the Alameda.They motor from Wenatchee and beyond to try it.It’s a pretty good road, but in a year or two,when these shade trees come into full leaf, it willbe something to show.”

There were tufts on most of them now and on the youngfruit trees that ran in geometrical designs on eitherside, covering the levels that last year had beenovergrown with sage. As these infant orchardsdropped behind and the Wenatchee range loomed near,Cerberus detached from the other peaks; but it wasno longer a tawny monster on guard; its contour wasbroken by many terraces, luxuriant with alfalfa andplanted with trees.

“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Weatherbee, “thereis the gap. Then, this must be the mountain—itreminded me once of a terrible, crouching, wild beast—but it has changed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” responded Banks, “she’slooking tamer now. The peaches have taken righthold, and those fillers of strawberries are hurryingon the green. But you give ’em three yearsor maybe four, and take ’em in blossom time,—my,you won’t know this old mountain then.”

A drive, cross-cutting the bold front, led to thelevel beneath the summit, where rose the white wallsand green gables of Annabel’s home, but theyrounded the mountain into the smaller vale. “This,”said the mayor, with culminating pride, “isWeatherbee Orchards. It shows what money, inthe right hands, can do.”

A soft breeze came down over the ridge as they ascended;the flume, that followed the contour of the roadway,gurgled pleasantly. Everywhere along the spillwaysalfalfa spread thriftily, or strawberry plants sentout new tendrils. All growing things were moreadvanced in that walled pocket than in the outer vale;the arid gulf had become a vast greenhouse. Cerberusno longer menaced. Even the habitation of thegoat-woman, that had been the central distractionof the melancholy picture, was obliterated. Inall that charming landscape there was no discordantnote to break the harmony.

The car doubled the curve at the top of the benchand ran smoothly between breadths of green lawn, borderedby nodding narcissus, towards the house, which waslong and low, with a tiled roof and cream-colored wallsthat enclosed a patio. A silence fell over thecompany. As they alighted, every one waited,looking expectantly at Beatriz Weatherbee. Themusic of a fountain fluted from the court, and shewent forward, listening. Her face was no longerinscrutable; it shone with a kind of inner illumination.But when she saw the slender column of spray and thesparkling basin, with a few semi-tropical plants groupedon the curb, a cactus, a feathery palm in a quaintstone pot, she turned, and her eyes sought Elizabeth’s.“It is all like the old hacienda where grandfatherwas born, and mother, and”— her voicebroke—“Only that had adobe walls,”she finished. “It is like— cominghome.”

“It is simply marvelous,” replied Elizabeth,and she added abruptly, looking at the prospector:“Mr. Banks, you are a problem beyond me.”

“It looks all right, doesn’t it?”the little man beamed. “Likely it wouldabout suit Dave. And I was able to stand the investment.My, yes, now your brother has bought out the Annabel,what I spent wouldn’t cut any figure. But,”and his glance moved to the woman who had profitedby the venture, “I’ll likely get my moneyback.”

Afterwards, when the party had inspected the reservoirsand upper flumes, Beatriz found herself returningto the bench with Lucky Banks. It was almostsunset, and the far Chelan peaks were touched withAlpine fire; below them an amethyst mist filteredover the transformed vale. They had been discussingthe architecture of the building.

“I had often gone over the map of the projectwith David,” she said, “but he must havedrawn the plans of the house later, in Alaska.It was a complete surprise. I wonder he rememberedthe old hacienda so accurately; he was there onlyonce—when we were on our wedding journey.”

“There were a few measurements that had to belooked up,” admitted Banks; “but I tooka little run around into lower California last winter,on my way home from Washington, D.C.”

“You were there? You troubled to go allthe way to the old rancheria for details?”

“Yes, ma’am. It was a mighty goodgrazing country down there, but the people who boughtthe place were making their money out of one of thosefine hotels; it was put up alongside a bunch of hotsprings. Nobody but a couple of Mexicans wasliving in the old house. It was in bad shape.”

“I know. I know. If I had been a man,it would have been different. I should have restoredit; I should have worked, fought to buy back everyacre. But you saw old Jacinta and Carlos?It was recorded in the title they should be allowedto stay there and have the use of the old home gardenas long as they lived. My mother insisted on that.”

They had reached the level and walked on by the housetowards the solitary pine tree on the rim of the bench.After a moment he said: “Now Dave’sproject is running in good shape, there isn’tmuch left for me to do, my, no, except see the statueset up in the park.”

“I wanted to ask you about that, Mr. Banks;we passed the place on the way to the bungalow.It was beautiful. I presume you have selecteda woman’s figure—a lovely Ceres orAphrodite?”

“No, ma’am,” responded Banks a littlesharply. “It’s a full-sized man.Full-sized and some over, what the sculptor who madeit calls heroic; and it’s a good likeness ofDave Weatherbee.”

They had reached the pine tree, and she put out herhand to steady herself on the bole. “Iunderstand,” she said slowly. “Itwas a beautiful— tribute.”

“It looks pretty nice,” corroborated theprospector. “There was a mighty good photographof Dave a young fellow on a Yukon steamer gave me once,to go by. He was standing on a low bluff, withhis head up, looking off like a young elk, when theboat pulled out, and the camera man snapped him.It was the day we quit the partner lay, and I wasgoing down-stream, and he was starting for the headwatersof the Susitna. Tisdale told me about a man whohad done first-class work in New York, and I sent thatpicture with a check for a starter on my order.I wrote him the price wasn’t cutting any figurewith me; what I wanted was the best he could do andto have it delivered by the fifteenth of March.And he did; he had it done on time; and he said itwas his best work. It’s waiting down inWeatherbee now. Hollis thought likely I betterleave it to you whether to have the burying with thestatue down in the park, or up here, somewhere, onDave’s own ground.”

“Do you mean,” she asked, and her voicealmost failed, “you have brought—David—home?”

Banks nodded. “It was cold for him winteringup there in the Alaska snow.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve thought about—that.I should have done—as you have—had I been able.”

After a moment she said: “What is thereI can say to you? I did not know there were suchmen in the world until I knew you and Hollis Tisdale.Of course you believed, as he did, that I was necessaryto round out David’s project. That is why,when it was successfully completed, you forfeitedthe bonus and all the investment. I may neverbe able to fully refund you but—shall domy best. And this other—too. Mr.Banks, was that Mr. Tisdale’s suggestion?Did he share that—expense—withyou?”

“No, ma’am, he let me have that chancewhen we talked it over. I had to get even withhim on the project.”

“Even with him on the project?”

“Yes, ma’am. He let me put up themoney, but it’s got to be paid back out of Dave’shalf interest in the Aurora mine. And likely,likely, that’s what Dave Weatherbee would havewanted done.”

CHAPTER XXX

THE JUNIOR DEFENDANT

It was following a recess during the third afternoonof the trial; a jury had at last been impanelled,the attorney for the prosecution and the leading lawyerfor the defense had measured swords, when Stuart Foster,the junior defendant in the “Conspiracy to Defraudthe Government,” was called to the stand.Frederic Morganstein, the head of the Prince WilliamDevelopment Company, straightened in his seat besidethe vacated chair. He was sleekly groomed, andhis folded, pinkish white hands suggested a good child’s;his blank face assumed an expression of mildly protestinginnocence. But the man who stepped from his shadowinto the strong light of the south windows was plainlyharassed and worn. His boyishness was gone; heseemed to have aged years since that evening in Septemberwhen he had sailed for Alaska. Tisdale’sgreat heart stirred, then his clear mind began totally the rapid fire of questions and Foster’sreplies.

“When were you first connected with the PrinceWilliam Development Company, Mr. Foster?”

“In the summer of 1904.”

“You were then engaged in the capacity of miningengineer at a fixed salary, were you not?” Theprosecuting attorney had a disconcerting manner ofarching his brows. His mouth, taken in connectionwith his strong, square jaw, had the effect of closingon his questions like a trap.

“Yes,” Foster answered briefly, “Iwas to receive two hundred and fifty dollars a monththe first year, and its equivalent in the company’sstock.”

“Did you not, at the same time, turn over tothe company your interests in the Chugach Railwayand Development Company?”

“Yes,” said Foster.

“And was not this railroad built for the purposeof opening certain coal lands in the Matanuska region,in which you held an interest?”

“Yes, I had entered a coal claim of one hundredand sixty acres.”

“All the law allowed to an individual; but,Mr. Foster, did you not induce others, as many asthirty persons, to locate adjoining claims with theidea that the entire group would come under one control?”

Foster colored. “It was necessary to co-operate,”he said slowly, “in order to meet the enormousexpense of development and transportation. Wewished to build a narrow-gauge road—it wasthen in course of construction—but thesurvey was through the Chugach Mountains, the mostrugged in North America. The cost of moving material,after it was shipped from the States, was almost prohibitive;ordinary labor commanded higher wages than are paidskilled mechanics here in Seattle.”

“Mr. Foster, were not those coal claims locatedwith a purpose to dispose of them in a group at aprofit?”

“No, sir. I have told you on account ofthe great expense of development it was necessaryto work together; it was also necessary that as manyclaims as possible should be taken.”

The prosecution, nodding affirmatively, looked atthe jury. “The more cunning and subtlethe disguise,” he said, “the more surewe may be of the evasion of the law. So, Mr.Foster, you promoted an interest in the fields, selectedclaims for men who never saw them; used their powerof attorney?”

“Yes. That was in accordance with the lawthen in force. We paid for our coal claims, therequired ten dollars an acre. The land officeaccepted our money, eighty thousand dollars.Then the President suspended the law, and we neverreceived our patents. About that time the Chugachforest reserve was made, and we were hampered by allsorts of impossible conditions. Some of us werefinancially ruined. One of the first locatorsspent one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, his wholefortune, in development. He opened his mine andhad several tons of coal carried by packers throughthe mountains to the coast, to be shipped to Seattle,to be tested on one of the Government cruisers.The report was so favorable it encouraged the restof us to stay with the venture.”

“Mr. Foster,” the attorney’s voicetook a higher, more aggressive pitch, “werenot many of those claims entered under names furnishedby an agent of the Morganstein interests?”

“Well, yes.” Foster threw his headwith something of his old boyish defiance. Hewas losing patience and skill. “Mr. Morgansteinhimself made a filing, and his father. That isthe reason all our holdings are now classed as theMorganstein group.”

“And,” pursued the lawyer, “theirentries were incidental with the consolidation ofyour company with the Prince William Development Company?”

Foster flushed hotly. “The Prince WilliamDevelopment Company was in need of coal; no enterprisecan be carried on without it in Alaska. And theconsolidation brought necessary capital to us; withoutit, our railroad was bankrupt. It meant inestimablebenefit to the country, to every prospector, miner,homesteader, who must waste nerve-breaking weeks packinghis outfit through those bleak mountains in order toreach the interior. But, before forty miles oftrack was completed, the executive withdrew all Alaskacoal lands from entry, and we discontinued construction,pending an Act of Congress to allow our patents.The material carried in there at so great a cost islying there still, rotting away.”

“Gentlemen, is it not all clear to you?”The prosecuting attorney flashed a glance of triumphover the jury. “Do you not see in this PrinceWilliam Development Company the long arm of the octopusthat is strangling Alaska? That has reached outit* tentacles everywhere, for gold here, copper there;for oil, coal, timber, anything in sight? That,but for the foresight of the executive and GiffordPinchot, would possess most of Alaska today?”

The men on the jury looked thoughtful but not altogetherconvinced. One glanced at his neighbor with acovert smile. This man, whom the Government hadselected to prosecute the coal fraud cases was undeniablyable, often brilliant, but his statements showed hehad brought his ideas of Alaska from the Atlanticcoast; to him, standing in the Seattle courtroom, ouroutlying possession was still as remote. As hisglance moved to the ranks of outside listeners, whooverflowed the seats and crowded the aisles to thedoors, he must have been conscious that the sentimenthe had expressed was at least unpopular in the northwest.Faces that had been merely interested or curious grewsuddenly lowering. The atmosphere of the placeseemed surcharged.

The following morning Morganstein took the stand.Though in small matters that touched his personalcomfort he was arrogantly irritable, under the cross-examinationthat assailed his commercial methods he proved suaveand non-committal. As the day passed, the prosecutor’sinsinuations grew more open and vindictive. JudgeFeversham sprang to his feet repeatedly to challengehis accusations, and twice the Court calmed the Government’sattorney with a reprimand. The atmosphere of theroom seemed to seethe hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.Finally, during the afternoon session, Foster wasrecalled.

Through it all Tisdale waited, listening to everything,separating, weighing each point presented. Itwas beginning to look serious for Foster. Clearly,in his determination to win his suit, the prosecutionwas losing sight of the simple justice the Governmentdesired. And a man less dramatic, less choleric,with less of a reputation for political intrigue thanMiles Feversham might better have defended Stuart Foster.Foster was so frank, so honest, so eager to make theAlaska situation understood. And it was not anisolated case; there were hundreds of young men, who,like him, had cast their fortunes with that new andgrowing country, to find themselves, after years ofhardship and privation of which the outside worldhad no conception, bound hand and foot in an intricatetangle of the Government’s red tape.

The evening of the fourth day the attorney for theprosecution surprised Tisdale at his rooms. “Thankyou,” he said, when Hollis offered his armchair,“but those windows open to the four winds ofheaven are a little imprudent to a man who lives byhis voice. Pretty, though, isn’t it?”He paused a moment to look down on the harbor lightsand the chains of electric globes stretching off toQueen Anne hill and far and away to Magnolia bluff,then seated himself between the screen and the tablethat held the shaded reading lamp. “Hasit occurred to you, Mr. Tisdale,” he asked,“that a question may be raised as to the legalityof your testimony in these coal cases?”

“No.” Hollis remained standing.He looked at his visitor in surprise. “Pleasemake that clear, Mr. Bromley,” he said.

The attorney smiled. “This is a trial case,”he began. “A dozen others hinge on it.I was warned to be prepared for anything; so, whenmy attention was called to that article in Sampson’sMagazine, my suspicions were instantly awake.It looked much like blackmail and, in connection withanother story I heard in circulation at Washington,seemed a systematic preparation to attack the Government’switness. Possibly you do not know it was Mr.Jerold, your legal adviser and my personal friend,who put me in touch with the magazine. You hadwired him to find out certain facts, but he was unableto go to New York at the time and, knowing I was therefor the week, he got into communication with me bytelephone and asked me to look the matter up.The publishers, fearing a libel suit which would ruinthem, were very obliging. They allowed me tosee not only the original manuscript, but Mrs. Feversham’sletter, which I took the trouble to copy.”

“Mrs. Feversham’s letter?” Tisdaleexclaimed. “Do you mean it was Mrs. Fevershamwho was responsible for that story?”

“As it was published, yes. But Danielswas not a pen name. There really was such a writer—Ihave taken the trouble to find that out since I arrivedin Seattle. He was on the staff of the Pressand wrote a very creditable account of the catastropheon the Great Northern railroad, in which glowing tributewas given you. But since then, and this is whatmakes the situation so questionable, he has left thepaper and dropped completely out of sight.”

Tisdale drew forward his chair and settled himselfcomfortably. “There is no need to worryabout Jimmie Daniels,” he said; “he isall right. I saw him at Cascade tunnel; he toldme he was about to be married and go to the Wenatcheecountry to conduct a paper of his own. It’stoo bad there wasn’t another reporter up thereto tell about him. He worked like a Trojan, andit was a place to try a man’s mettle. Afterwards,before he left, he came to me and introduced himself.He had been aboard the yacht that day I told the story.He had taken it down in his notebook behind an awning.He told me one of the ladies on board—hedid not mention her name—who read his copylater, offered to dispose of it for him.”

“So,” said the lawyer slowly, “youdid tell the story; there was a papoose; the unfortunateincident really occurred.”

“Yes,” responded Tisdale, “it happenedin a canyon of those mountains across the Sound.You can barely make out their outline to-night; butwatch for them at sunrise; it’s worth waitingfor.” Then, after a moment, he said, “Itold the story to show the caliber of Weatherbee, theman who put himself in my place when the Indians cameto our camp, looking for me; but, in editing, allmention of him was cut out. Daniels couldn’tunderstand that. He said the manuscript was long,but if it was necessary to abridge in making up themagazine, why had they thrown out the finest partof the story?”

“Let me see,” said the attorney thoughtfully,“wasn’t Weatherbee the name of the manyou grub-staked in Alaska, and who discovered the Auroramine?”

Tisdale bowed, then added, with the vibration playingsoftly in his voice: “And the name of thebravest and noblest man that ever fought the unequalfight of the north.”

“Which proves the story was not published toexploit a hero,” commented Bromley. “Butnow,” he went on brusquely, “we have arrivedat the other story. Do you know, Mr. Tisdale,it is being said in Washington, and, too, I have heardit here in Seattle, that though your own half interestin the Aurora mine, acquired through the grub-stakeyou furnished Weatherbee, will make you a millionaireat least, you are withholding the widow’s share.”

This time Tisdale did not express surprise. “Ihave had that suggested to me,” he answeredquietly. “But the stories of the Auroraare very much inflated. It is a comparativelynew mine, and though it promises to be one of thegreat discoveries, the expense of operating so farhas exceeded the output. Heavy machinery hasbeen transported and installed, and Mrs. Weatherbeecould not have met any part of these payments.In all probability she would have immediately disposedof an interest at a small price and so handicappedme with a partner with his own ideas of development.David Weatherbee paid for the Aurora with his life,and I have pledged myself to carry out his plans.But, Mr. Bromley, do not trouble about that last halfinterest. I bought it: the transfer wasregularly recorded; Mr. Jerold has assured me it islegally mine.”

“I know what Mr. Jerold thinks,” repliedthe attorney. “It nettled him to hear merepeat that story. ‘Why, it’s incredible,’”he said. “’There are documents I drewup last fall that refute it completely.’”Mr. Bromley paused, then went on slowly: “Lastfall you were in a hospital, Mr. Tisdale, beginninga long, all but hopeless fight for your life, and itwas natural you should have called in Mr. Jerold tosettle your affairs. I inferred from his remarkthat you had remembered Mrs. Weatherbee, at least,in your will.” He halted again, then addedstill more deliberately: “If I am right,I should like to be prepared, in case of emergency,to read such a clause in court.”

Tisdale was silent. He rose and turned to thewest windows, where he stood looking down on the harborlights.

“Am I right?” persisted the attorney.

Hollis thrust his hands into his pockets and swungaround. He stood with his chin lowered, lookingat the lawyer with his upward glance from under slightlyfrowning brows. “Well,” he said atlast, “suppose you are. And suppose I refuseto have my private papers read in open court?”

“In that case,” answered Mr. Bromley,rising, “I must telegraph to Washington forone of the Alaska coal commission to take your place.I am sorry. You were named to me at the beginningas a man who knew more about Alaska coal, and, infact, the whole Alaska situation, than any other employeeof the Government.”

Still, having said this, Mr. Bromley did not seemin any hurry to go, but stood holding his hat andwaiting for a word from Tisdale to redeem the situation.At last it came. “Is there no other way,”he asked, “than to drag my private affairs intocourt?”

The attorney gravely shook his head. “Younever can tell what a jury will do,” he said.“Less than a prejudice against a witness hasswung a decision sometimes.”

Hollis said no more. He went over to his safeand selected a package containing three documentsheld together by a rubber band. After a hesitatingmoment, he drew out one, which he returned to its place.The others he brought to the attorney, who carriedthem to the reading lamp to scan. One was a deedto the last half interest in the Aurora, the one whichWeatherbee had had recorded, and the remaining paperwas, as Mr. Bromley conjectured, Tisdale’s will;but it contained a somewhat disconcerting surprise.However, the lawyer seated himself and, spreadingthe paper open on the table, copied this clause.

... “The Aurora mine, lying in an unsurveyedregion of Alaska, accessible from Seward by way ofRainy Pass, and from the Iditarod district north byeast, I bequeath to Beatriz Silva Gonzales Weatherbee,to be held for her in trust by Stuart Emory Posterfor a period of five years, or until development,according to David Weatherbee’s plans, shallhave been fully carried out. The profits, abovethe cost of all improvements and all operating expenses—whichshall include a superintendent’s salary of fourthousand dollars a year to said Stuart Emory Foster—tobe paid in semi-annual dividends to said Beatriz SilvaGonzales Weatherbee.”

“Stuart Emory Foster,” repeated the lawyermeditatively, putting away his fountain pen.“You evidently have considerable confidence inhis engineering skill, Mr. Tisdale.”

“Yes.” His voice mellowed, but heregarded the attorney with the upward, watchful look.“I have confidence in Stuart Emory Foster inevery way. He is not only one of the most capable,reliable mining engineers, but also one of the mostrespected and most trusted men in the north.”

There was a silence, during which Mr. Bromley thoughtfullyfolded his copy and placed it in his pocket-book.“Thank you, Mr. Tisdale,” he said finally,and rose once more. “You may not be calledfor several days but when you are, it is advisablethat you have the original documents at hand.Good night.”

CHAPTER XXXI

TISDALE OF ALASKA—AND WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was evident, after his interview with Hollis Tisdale,that Mr. Bromley was in no hurry to precipitate theside issue for which he had prepared. Every onewho had taken coal land in the Morganstein group hadbeen on the witness stand, and many more who had notfiled claims had given testimony, yet the prosecutionheld him in reserve. Then came a day when LuckyBanks, recalled to tell what he knew about the Chugachtrail, made some astonishing statements. He hadtraveled that route with a partner at the end of aseason in the Copper River plateau. They had expectedto finish the distance by the new railroad. Thelittle man was brief but graphic. It seemed tohave been a running fight with storms, glaciers, andglacial torrents to reach that narrow-gauge trackbefore the first real September blizzard. “Butwe could have stood it,” he concluded in hishigh key, “my, yes, it wouldn’t have amountedto much, if we could have had firewood.”

“Did you not know the fallen timber was at yourservice?” questioned Mr. Bromley. “Provided,of course, you conformed to the laws of the reservein building your fire and in extinguishing it whenyou broke camp.”

“There wasn’t any fallen timber,”responded Banks dryly; “and likely we wouldhave took it green, if there had been a tree in sight.It was getting mighty cold, nights, and with the frostin his wet clothes, a man needs a warm supper to heartenhim.”

“What?” exclaimed Mr. Bromley sharply.“Do you mean you saw no trees? Rememberyou were in the Chugach forest; or did you lose yourway?”

“No, sir. We struck the Chugach Railwayjust where we aimed to, but a mighty lot of the Chugachreserve is out of timber line. That’s whywe banked on Foster’s new train to hurry usthrough. But we found she had quit running.The Government had got wind of the scheme and senta bunch of rules and regulations. First camea heavy tax for operating the road; and next was anorder to put spark arresters on all his engines.He only had two first-class ones and a couple of makeshiftsto haul his gravel cars; and his sparks would havefroze, likely, where they lit, but there he was, tiedup on the edge of a fill he had counted on finishingup before his crew went out for the winter, and thenearest spark arrester farther off than Christmas.”

A ripple of amusem*nt ran through the crowded room,but little Banks stood waiting frostily. Whenhis glance caught the judge’s smile, his eyesscintillated their blue light. “Likely Fosterwould have sent his order out and had those arrestersshipped around Cape Horn from New York,” headded. “They’d probably been in timefor spring travel; but he opened another bunch ofmail and found there wouldn’t be any more sparks.Washington, D.C., had shut down his coal mine.”

Mr. Bromley had no further questions to ask.He seemed preoccupied and passed the recess that followedthe prospector’s testimony in pacing the corridor.Lucky Banks had been suggested as an intelligent andhonest fellow on whom the Government might rely; buthis statements failed to dovetail with his knowledgeof Alaska and the case, and after the intermissionTisdale was called.

The moment he was sworn, Miles Feversham was on hisfeet. He held in his hand a magazine, in whichduring the recess, he had been engrossed, and hisforefinger kept the place.

“I object to this witness,” he said sonorouslyand waited while a stir, like a gust of wind in awood, swept the courtroom, and the jury straightened,alert. “I object, not because he defraudedthe widow of David Weatherbee out of her half interestin the Aurora mine, though, gentlemen, you know thisto be an open fact, but for the reason that he isa criminal, self-confessed, who should be serving aprison sentence, and a criminal’s testimonyis not allowable in a United States court.”

Before he finished speaking, or the Court had recoveredfrom the shock, Mr. Bromley had taken a bundle ofpapers from his pocket and stepped close to the jurybox.

“This is an infamous fabrication,” heexclaimed. “It was calculated to surpriseus, but it finds us prepared. In ten minutes weshall prove it was planned six months ago to defamethe character of the Government’s witness atthis trial. I have here, gentlemen, a copy ofthe Alaska record showing the transfer of David Weatherbee’sinterest in the Aurora mine to Hollis Tisdale; itbears the signature of his wife. But this extractfrom Mr. Tisdale’s will, which was drawn shortlyafter his return from Alaska, last year, and whilehe was dangerously ill in Washington, proves how farit was from his intention to defraud the widow of DavidWeatherbee.” Here Mr. Bromley read theclause.

Tisdale, standing at ease, with his hand resting onhis chair, glanced from the attorney to Foster.No mask covered his transparent face; the dark circlesunder his fine, expressive eyes betrayed how nearlythreadbare his hope was worn. Then, suddenly,in the moment he met Tisdale’s look, wonder,swift intelligence, contrition, and the gratitudeof his young, sorely tried spirit flashed from hiscountenance. To Hollis it became an illuminatedscroll.

“As to the main charge,” resumed Mr. Bromley,“that is ridiculous. It is based on anunfortunate accident to an Indian child years ago.The distorted yarn was published in a late issue ofa sensational magazine. No doubt, most of youhave read it, since it was widely circulated.Different—isn’t it?—fromthat other story of Mr. Tisdale which came down fromCascade tunnel. Gentlemen, I have the letter thatwas enclosed with the manuscript that was submittedto Sampson’s Magazine. It was notwritten by the author, James Daniels, but by a lady,who had offered to dispose of the material for him,and who, without his knowledge, substituted a revisedcopy.”

Miles Feversham had subsided, dumbfounded, into hischair; his self-sufficiency had deserted him; fora moment the purple color surged in his face; hischagrin overwhelmed him. But Marcia, seated inthe front row outside the bar, showed no confusion.Her brilliant, compelling eyes were on her husband.It was as though she wished to reinforce him, and atthe same time convey some urgent, vital thought.He glanced around and, reading the look, started againto his feet. He began to retract his denunciation.It was evident he had been misinformed; he offeredhis apologies to the witness and asked that the casebe resumed. But the prosecuting attorney, disregardinghim, continued to explain. “In the Daniels’manuscript, gentlemen, a coroner’s inquest exoneratedthe man who was responsible for the death of the papoose;this the magazine suppressed. I am able to offerin evidence James Daniels’ affidavit.”

Then, while the jury gathered these varying ideasin fragments, Lucky Banks’ treble rose.“Let’s hear what the lady wrote.”And some one at the back of the courtroom said ina deep voice; “Read the lady’s letter.”

It seemed inevitable. Mr. Bromley had separateda letter from the bundle of papers. InvoluntarilyMarcia started up. But the knocking of the gavel,sounding smartly, insistently, above the confusion,brought unexpected deliverance.

“It is unnecessary to further delay this Courtwith this issue,” announced the judge.“The case before the jury already has draggedthrough nearly four weeks, and it should be conductedas expeditiously as possible to a close. Mr.Bromley, the witness is sustained.”

Marcia settled back in her place; Miles Feversham,like a man who has slipped on the edge of a chasm,sat a moment longer, gripping the arms of his chair;then his shifting look caught Frederic’s wide-eyedgaze of uncomprehending innocence, and he weakly smiled.

“Mr. Tisdale,” began the prosecution,putting aside his papers and endeavoring to focushis mind again on the case, “you have spent someyears with the Alaska division of the Geological Survey?”

“Every open season and some of the winters fora period of ten years, with the exception of threewhich I also spent in Alaska.”

“And you are particularly familiar with thelocality included in the Chugach forest reserve, Iunderstand, Mr. Tisdale. Tell us a little aboutit. It contains vast reaches of valuable and marketabletimber, does it not?”

The genial lines crinkled lightly in Tisdale’sface. “The Chugach forest contains somemarketable timber on the lower Pacific slopes,”he replied, “where there is excessive precipitationand the influence of the warm Japan current, but alongthe streams on the other side of the divide thereare only occasional growths of scrubby spruce, hardlysuitable for telegraph poles or even railroad ties.”He paused an instant then went on mellowly: “Gifford

Pinchot was thousands of miles away; he never had seenAlaska, when he suggested that the Executive set asidethe Chugach forest reserve. No doubt he believedthere was valuable timber on those lofty peaks andglaciers, but I don’t know how he first heardof a Chugach forest, unless”—he haltedagain and looked at the jury, while the humor deepenedin his voice—“those Pennsylvania contractors,who were shipping coal around Cape Horn to supplythe Pacific navy, took the chance of there being treesin those mountains and interested the Government insaving the timber—to conserve the coal.”

A ripple of laughter passed over the jury and on throughthe courtroom. Even the presiding judge smiled,and Mr. Bromley hurried to say: “Tell ussomething about that Alaska coal, Mr. Tisdale.You have found vast bodies— have you not?—ofa very high grade; to compare favorably with Pennsylvaniacoal.”

“The Geodetic Survey estimates there are overeight millions of acres of coal land already knownin Alaska,” replied Hollis statistically.“More than is contained in all Pennsylvania,West Virginia, and Ohio combined. It is of allgrades. The Bonnifield near Fairbanks, far inthe interior, is the largest field yet discovered,and in one hundred and twenty-two square miles ofit that have been surveyed, there are about ten billionsof tons. Cross sections show veins two hundredand thirty-one feet thick. This coal is lignite.”

“How about the Matanuska fields?” askedMr. Bromley.

“The Matanuska cover sixty-five thousand acres;the coal is a high grade bituminous, fit for steamand co*king purposes. There are also some veinsof anthracite. I consider the Matanuska the bestand most important coal yet discovered in Alaska,and with the Bering coal, which is similar thoughmore broken, these fields should supply the UnitedStates for centuries to come.”

Mr. Bromley looked at the jury. His smile said:

“You heard that, gentlemen?” Then, hisglance returning to the witness:

“Why the most important?” he asked.

“Because all development, all industry, in thenorth depends on the opening up of such a body ofcoal. And these fields are the most accessibleto the coast. A few hundreds of miles of railroad,the extension of one or two of the embryo lines onwhich construction has been suspended, would makethe coal available on Prince William Sound. Usedby the Pacific Navy, it would save the Governmenta million dollars a year on transportation.”

The prosecuting attorney looked at the jury againin triumph. “And that, gentlemen, is whythe Prince William Development Company was so readyto finance one of those embryo railroads; why thoseMatanuska coal claims were located by the syndicate’sstenographers, bookkeepers, any employee down herein their Seattle offices. Mr. Tisdale, if thosepatents had been allowed and the claims had been turnedover to the company, would it not have given the Morgansteininterests a monopoly on Alaska coal?”

Tisdale paused a thoughtful moment. “No,at least only temporarily, if at all. Out ofthose eight millions of acres of coal land alreadydiscovered in Alaska, not more than thirty-two thousandacres have been staked—only one claim,an old and small mine on the coast, has been allowed.”His glance moved slowly over the jury, from face toface, and he went on evenly: “You can’texpect capital to invest without some inducement.The Northern Pacific, the first trans-continentalrailroad in the United States, received enormous landgrants along the right of way; but the Prince WilliamDevelopment Company, which intends ultimately to bridgedistances as vast, to tap the unknown resources ofthe Alaska interior, has not asked for concessions,beyond the privilege to develop such properties asit may have acquired by location and purchase.Surely the benefit that railroad would be in openingthe country to settlement and in the saving of humanlife, should more than compensate for those few hundredsof acres of the Government’s coal.”

“Mr. Tisdale,” said the attorney sharply,“that, in an employee of the Government, isa strange point of view.”

Tisdale’s hands sought his pockets; he returnedMr. Bromley’s look with his steady, upward gazefrom under slightly frowning brows. “Theperspective changes at close range,” he said.“The Government knows less about its great possessionof Alaska than England knew about her American colonies,one hundred and fifty years ago. The United Stateshad owned Alaska seventeen years before any form ofgovernment was established there; more than thirtybefore a criminal code was provided, and thirty-threeyears before she was given a suitable code of civillaws. Now, to-day, there are no laws operativein Alaska under which title may be acquired to coalland. Alaska has yielded hundreds of millionsof dollars from her placers, her fisheries, and furs,but the only thing the Government ever did for Alaskawas to import reindeer for the use of the Esquimos.”

Another ripple of laughter passed through the courtroom;even the judge on the bench smiled. But Mr. Bromley’sface was a study. He began to fear the effectof Tisdale’s astonishing statements on the jury,while at the same time he was impelled to listen.In the moment he hesitated over a question, Hollislifted his head and said mellowly: “Thesins of Congress have not been in commission but inomission. They are under the impression, faraway there in Washington, that Alaska is too bleak,too barren for permanent settlement; that the whitepopulation is a floating one, made up chiefly of freebootersand outlaws. But we know the foundations of anempire have been laid there; that, allowed the useof the fuel Nature has so bountifully stored thereand granted a fair measure of encouragement to transportation,those great inland tundras would be as populous asSweden; as progressive as Germany.” Hisglance moved to the jury; all the nobility, the fineness,

the large humanity of the man was expressed in thatmoment in his face; a subdued emotion pervaded hisvoice. “We know the men who forged a waythrough that mighty bulwark of mountains to the interiorwere brave, resourceful, determined—theyhad to be—but, too, they saw a broad horizon;they had patriotism; if there are any Americans leftwho have inherited a spark of the old Puritan spirit,they are the ones who have cast their fortunes withAlaska.”

He paused again briefly, and his eyes rested on Foster.“Do you know?” he resumed, and his glancereturned to the prosecuting attorney, “when Icame out last season, I saw a ship at the terminusof the new Copper River and Northwestern Railroaddischarging Australian coal. This with the greatBering fields lying at their side door! The peopleof Cordova wanted to see that road finished; the lifeof their young seaport depended on it—but—that night they threw the whole of thatcargo of foreign coal into the waters of Prince WilliamSound. It is referred to, now, as the ‘Cordovatea-party.’”

In the silence that held the courtroom, Tisdale stoodstill regarding the lawyer. His expression wasmost engaging, a hint of humor lurked at the cornersof his mouth, yet it seemed to veil a subtle meaning.Then the jury began to laugh quietly, with a kindof seriousness, and again the judge straightened,checking a smile. It was all very disturbing toMr. Bromley. He had been assured by one highin the administration that he might rely on Tisdale’smagnetic personality and practical knowledge as wellas his technical information in prosecuting the case;but while he hesitated over the question he wishedto ask, Tisdale said mellowly, no doubt to bridgethe awkward pause: “The Copper River andNorthwestern couldn’t mine their coal, and theycouldn’t import any, so they changed their locomotivesto oil burners.”

Then Mr. Bromley said abruptly: “This isall very interesting, Mr. Tisdale, but it is the ChugachRailway and not the Copper River Northwestern, thatbears on our case. You have been over that route,I believe?”

“Yes.” Tisdale’s voice quickened.“I used the roadbed going to and from the MatanuskaValley. Also I went over the proposed route oncewith Mr. Foster and the civil engineers.”

“Was it, in your opinion, a bona fide railroad,Mr. Tisdale? Or simply a lure to entice peopleto make coal locations in order that they might bebought after the patents were issued?”

“It was started in good faith.” Thesteel rang, a warning note, in his voice. “Thelargest stockholder had spent nearly a hundred thousanddollars in opening his coal claim. He was in needof immediate transportation.”

“This was after the Chugach Company consolidatedwith the Prince William syndicate, Mr. Tisdale?”

“No, sir. It was previous to that time.The Chugach Railway and Development Company had chosenone of the finest harbors in Alaska for a terminus.It was doubly protected from the long Pacific swellby the outer, precipitous shore of Prince WilliamSound. But their greatest engineering problemmet them there at the start. It was necessaryto cross a large glacier back of the bay. Therewas no possible way to build around it; the only solutionwas a bore under the ice. The building of sucha tunnel meant labor and great expense. And itwas not a rich company; it was made up principallyof small stockholders, young men, just out of collegesome of them, who had gone up there with plenty ofenthusiasm and courage to invest in the enterprise,but very little money. They did their own assessmentwork, dug like any coal miners with pick and shovel,cut and carried the timbers to brace their excavationsunder Mr. Foster’s instructions. And whenconstruction commenced on the railroad, they camedown to do their stunt at packing over the glacier—gradingbegan from the upper side—and sometimesthey cut ties.”

“And meantime,” said the attorney brusquely,“Mr. Foster, who was responsible I believe,was trying to interest other capital to build thetunnel.”

“Yes. And meantime, the Prince Williamsyndicate started a parallel railroad to the interiorfrom the next harbor to the southwestward. Itwas difficult to interest large capital with competitionso close.” Tisdale paused; his glance movedfrom Mr. Bromley to the jury, his voice took its minornote. “Stuart Foster did hold himself responsibleto those young fellows. He had known most ofthem personally in Seattle; they were a picked companyfor the venture. He had youth and courage himself,in those days, but he knew Alaska—he hadbeen there before and made good. He had theirconfidence. He was that kind of man; one to inspiretrust on sight, anywhere.” Hollis pausedanother instant, while his eyes turned to Foster,and involuntarily, one after the other, the jury followedhis look. “It was then,” he added,“when other capital failed, the Chugach Companygave up their seaport and consolidated with the PrinceWilliam syndicate.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tisdale,” said the attorneyfor the prosecution. “That is all.”

Miles Feversham had, as Frederic afterward expressedit, “caught his second wind.” Whilehe listened attentively to the testimony, he made somesweeping revisions in his notes for the argument whichhe was to open the following day. He laughedat, while he congratulated himself, that the Government’sstar witness, of whom he had been so afraid, shouldhave proved so invaluable to the defense. Andwhen court adjourned, and the trio went down the stepsto the street, he assured his brother-in-law therewas a chance for him to escape, under Foster’scloak. To Marcia he said jocularly, though stillin an undertone: “’Snatched like abrand from the burning!’” And he added:“My lady, had you consulted me, I should havesuggested the April issue. These magazines havea bad habit of arriving too soon.”

Frederic, released from the long day’s strain,did not take this facetiousness meekly, but Marciawas silent. For once the “brightest Morganstein”felt her eclipse. But while they stood on thecurb, waiting for the limousine to draw up, a newsboycalled: “All about the Alaska bill!Home Rule for Alaska!”

The special delegate bought a copy, and Marcia drewclose to his elbow while they scanned the messagetogether. It was true. The bill, to whichthey both had devoted their energies that season inWashington, had passed. Feversham folded thepaper slowly and met his wife’s brilliant glance.It was as though she telegraphed: “Now,the President must name a governor.”

CHAPTER XXXII

THE OTHER DOCUMENT

The argument, which Miles Feversham opened with unusualbrilliancy the following morning, was prolonged withvarying degrees of heat to the close of another week;then the jury, out less than two hours, brought intheir verdict of “Not Guilty.”

And that night, for the first time since Tisdale’sreturn, Foster climbed to the eyrie in the Alaskabuilding. “I came up to thank you, Hollis,”he began in his straightforward way. “Itwas breakers ahead when you turned the tide.But,” he added after a pause, “what willthe President think of your views?”

Tisdale laughed softly. “He heard mostof them before I left Washington, and this is whathe thinks.”

As he spoke, he took a letter from the table whichhe gave to Foster. It bore the official stampand was an appointment to that position which MilesFeversham had so confidently hoped, with Marcia’said, to secure.

“Well, that shows the President’s goodjudgment!” Foster exclaimed and held out hishand. “You are the one man broad enoughto fit the place.” After a moment he said,“But it is going to leave you little time todevote to your own affairs. How about the Aurora?”

Tisdale did not reply directly. He rose and walkedthe length of the floor. “That depends,”he said and stopped with his hands in his pocketsto regard Foster with the upward, appraising look fromunder knitting brows. “I presume, Stuart,you are through with the syndicate?”

Foster colored. “I put in my resignationas mining engineer of the company shortly after Icame out, at the beginning of the year.”

“And while you were in the interior,”pursued Tisdale, “you were sent to the Aurorato make a report. What did you think of the mine?”

“I thought Frederic Morganstein would be safein bonding the property if he could interest you inselling; it looked better to me than even Banks’strike in the Iditarod. This season’s clean-upshould justify Weatherbee.”

“You mean in staying on at the risk of his reasonand life?”

Foster nodded; a shadow crossed his open face.“I mean everything but—his neglectto make final provision for his wife.”

Tisdale frowned. “There is where you makeyour mistake. Weatherbee persisted as he did,in the face of defeat, for her sake.”

Foster laughed mirthlessly. “The proofsare otherwise. Look at things, once, from herside,” he broke out. “Think what itmeans to her to see you realizing, from a few hundreddollars you could easily spare, this big fortune.I know you’ve been generous, but after all, ofwhat benefit to her is a bequest in your will, whennow she has absolutely nothing but that hole in theColumbia desert? Face it, be reasonable; you alwayshave been in every way but this. I don’tsee how you can be so hard, knowing her now as youdo.”

Tisdale turned to the window. “I have notbeen as hard as you think,” he said. “Butit was necessary, in order to carry out Weatherbee’splans, to— do as I did.”

“That’s the trouble.” Fosterrose from his chair and went a few steps nearer Tisdale.“You are the sanest man in the world in everyway but one. But you can’t think straightwhen it comes to Weatherbee. There is where thenorth got its hold on you. Can’t you seeit? Look at it through my eyes, or any one’s.You did for David Weatherbee what one man in a thousandmight have done. And you’ve interested LuckyBanks in that reclamation project; you’ve goneon yourself with his developments at the Aurora.But there’s one thing you’ve lost sightof—justice to Beatriz Weatherbee.You’ve done your best for him, but he is dead.Hollis, old man, I tell you he is dead. And sheis living. You have sent her, the proudest, sweetestwoman on God’s earth, to brave out her life inthat sage-brush wilderness. Can’t you seeyou owe something to her?”

Tisdale did not reply. But presently he wentover to his safe and took out the two documents thatwere fastened together. This time it was the willhe returned to its place; the other paper he broughtto Foster. “I am going to apologize formy estimate of Mrs. Weatherbee the night you sailednorth,” he said. “My judgment then,before I had seen her, was unfair; you were right.But I could hardly have done differently in any case.There was danger that she would dispose of a halfinterest in the Aurora at once, at any low price FredericMorganstein might name. And you know the syndicate’smethods. I did not want a Morganstein partnership.But, later, at the time I had my will drawn, I sawthis way.”

Foster took the document, but he did not read it immediately;he stood looking at Tisdale. “So you toowere afraid of him. But I knew nothing aboutLucky Banks’ option. It worried me, thoseendless nights up there in the Iditarod, to thinkthat in her extremity she might marry Frederic Morganstein.There was a debt that pressed her. Did you knowabout that?”

“Yes. She called it a ‘debt of honor.’”

“And you believed, as I did, that it was a directloan to cover personal expenses. After I camehome, I found out she borrowed the money originallyof Miss Morganstein, to endow a bed in the children’shospital. Think of it! And Mrs. Feversham,who took it off her sister’s hands, transferredthe note to Morganstein.”

Tisdale did not say anything, but his rugged faceworked a little, and he turned again to look out intothe night. Foster moved nearer the reading-lampand unfolded the document. It was a deed conveying,for a consideration of one dollar, a half interestin the Aurora mine to Beatriz Silva Gonzales Weatherbee;provided said half interest be not sold, or parceled,or in any way disposed of for a period of five years.Her share of the profits above operating expenseswas to be paid in semi-annual dividends, and, as inthe will, Stuart Emory Foster was named as trustee.

Foster folded the document slowly. His glancemoved to Tisdale, and his eyes played every swiftchange from contrition to gratitude. Hollis turned.“I want you to take the management of the wholemine,” he said mellowly. “At a salaryof five thousand a year to start with. And assoon as you wish, you may deliver this deed.”

Foster’s lips trembled a little. “You’vemade a mistake,” he said unsteadily. Then:“Why don’t you take it to her yourself,Hollis?” he asked.

Tisdale was silent. He turned back to the window,and after an interval, Foster went over and stoodbeside him, looking down on the harbor lights.His arm went up around Tisdale’s shoulder ashe said: “If Weatherbee could know everythingnow; if he had loved her, put her first always, asyou believe, do you think he would be any happierto see her punished like this?”

Still Tisdale was silent. Then Foster’sarm fell, and he said desperately: “Can’tyou see, Hollis? Weatherbee was greater than eitherof us, I grant that. But the one thing in theworld you are so sure he most desired—thelack of which wrecked his life—the one thingI have tried for the hardest and missed—hasfallen to you. Go and ask her to sail to Alaskawith you. You’ll need her up there to carrythe honors for you. You prize her, you love her,—youknow you do.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE CALF-BOUND NOTEBOOK

The statue was great. So Tisdale told Lucky Banks,that day the prospector met him at the station andthey motored around through the park. The sculptorhimself had said he must send people to Weatherbeewhen they wanted to see his best work. It wasplain his subject had dominated him. He had achievedwith the freedom of pose the suggestion of decisionand power that had been characteristic of David Weatherbee.Quick intelligence spoke in the face, yet the eyesheld their expression of seeing a far horizon.To Hollis, coming suddenly, as he did, upon the bronzefigure in the Wenatchee sunshine, it seemed to warmwith a latent consciousness. He felt poignantlya sense of David’s personality, as he had knownhim at the crowning period of his life.

“It suits me,” responded Banks. “My,yes, it’s about as good a likeness as we canget of Dave.” He put on his hat, which involuntarilyhe had removed, and started the car on around thecurve. “But it’s a mighty lot likeyou. It crops out most in the eyes, seeing thingsoff somewheres, clear out of sight, and the way youcarry your size. You was a team.”

“I am sorry I missed those services,”said Tisdale. “I meant to be here.”

Banks nodded. “But it all went off fine.She agreed with me it was the best place. IfI was to go back to Alaska, and she was off somewhereson a trip, it would be sure to get taken care of herein the park; and, afterwards, when neither of us cancome around to keep things in shape any more.And I told her how the ranchers up and down the valleywould get to feeling acquainted and friendly withDave, seeing his statue when they was in town; andhow the fruit-buyers and the pickers, and maybe thetourists, coming and going, would remember about himand tell everybody they knew; and how the school childrenwould ask questions about the statue, thinking hewas in the same class with Lincoln and Washington,and be always telling how he was the first man thatlooked ahead and saw what water in this valley coulddo.”

“You were right, Johnny. The memory ofhim will live and grow with this town when the restof us are forgotten.”

They had turned from the park and went speeding upbetween the rows of new poplars along the Alameda,and the prospector’s eyes moved over the reclaimedvale, where acres on acres of young fruit trees incultivated squares crowded out the insistent sage.“And this town for a fact is bound to grow,”he said.

Then at last, when Cerberus loomed near, and theyentered the gap, the little man’s big heartrose and his bleak face glowed, under Tisdale’sexpressions of wonder and approbation at the advancethe vineyards and orchards had made, so soon afterthe consummation of the project. Fillers of alfalfastretched along the spillways from the main canal likea green carpet; strawberry plants were blossoming;grapes reached out pale tendrils and many leaves.But, at the top of the pocket, where the road beganto lift gently in a double curve across the front ofthe bench, Hollis dismissed Banks and his red carand walked the rest of the way. On the rim ofthe level, near the solitary pine tree, he stoppedto look down on the transformed vale, and suddenly,once more he seemed to feel David’s presence.It was as though he stood beside him and saw all thisawakening, this responding of the desert to his project.Almost it compensated—for those four days.

Almost! Tisdale drew his hand across his eyesand turned to follow the drive between the rows ofnodding narcissus. The irony of it! ThatWeatherbee should have lived to find the Aurora; that,with many times the needed capital in sight, he shouldhave lost. The perfume of the flowers filledthe warm atmosphere; the music of running water waseverywhere. As he left the side of the flume,the silver note of the fountain came to him from thepatio, then, like a mirage between him and the lowSpanish building, rose that miniature house he hadfound in the Alaska wilderness, with the small snowfigure before it, holding a bundle in her arms.

The vision passed. But that image with the bundlewas the one unfinished problem in the project he hadcome to solve.

He entered the court and saw on his right an opendoor and, across the wide room, Beatriz Weatherbee.She was seated at a quaint secretary on which wereseveral bundles of papers, and the familiar box thathad contained David’s letters and watch.At the moment Tisdale discovered her, she was absorbedin a photograph she held in her hands, but at the soundof his step in the patio she turned and rose to meethim. Her face was radiant, yet she looked athim through arrested tears.

“I am sorry if I startled you,” he saidconventionally. “Banks brought me fromthe station, but he left me to walk up the bench.”

“I should have seen the red car down the gaphad I been at the window,” she replied, “butI was busy putting away papers. Freight has beenmoving slowly over the Great Northern, and my secretaryarrived only to-day. It bore the trip very well,considering its age. It belonged to my great-grandfather,Don Silva Gonzales. He brought it from Spain,but Elizabeth says it might have been made for thisroom. She is walking somewhere in the directionof the spring.”

While she spoke, she touched her cheeks and eyes swiftlywith her handkerchief and led the way to some chairsbetween the secretary and the great window that overlookedthe vale. Tisdale did not look at her directly;he wished to give her time to cover the emotion hehad surprised.

“I should say the room was built for Don Silva’sdesk,” he amended. “And—do you know?—this view reminds me of a littlepicture of Granada, a water-color of my mother’s,that hung in my room when I was a boy. But thispocket has changed some since we first saw it; yourdragon’s teeth are drawn.”

“Isn’t it marvelous how the expressionof the whole mountain has altered?” she responded.“There, at the end of the pines, that lookedlike a bristling mane, the green gables of Mrs. Banks’home have changed the contour. And the Chelanpeaks are showing now beyond it. That day thefarther ones were obscured. But we watched therain tramp up Hesperides Vale, you remember, and swingoff unexpectedly to the near summits. There wasa rainbow, and I said that perhaps somewhere in thisvalley I should find my pot of gold.”

“I remember. And I shouldn’t be surprisedif you do.”

“Do you think I do not know I have already?”she asked. “Do you think I have no appreciation,no gratitude? Why, even had I been too dull tosee it, Elizabeth would have told me that this housealone, to say nothing of the project, must have costa good deal of money; and that, no matter how deeplyMr. Banks may have felt his obligation to David, itwas not in reason he should have allowed everythingto revert to me. But I told him I should considerthe investment as a loan, and now, since he has letme know the truth”—her voice fluctuatedsoftly—“I shall make it a debt ofhonor just the same. Sometime—I shallrepay you.”

It was very clear to Tisdale that though she saw theproperty had so greatly increased in value, and thatthe reclamation movement in the outer vale made thetract readily salable, she no longer considered placingit on the market. “I thought Banks showedyou a way easily to cancel that loan,” he began.But meeting her look, he paused; his glance returnedto the window while he felt in his pocket for thatdeed Foster had refused to bring. It was goingto be more difficult than he had foreseen to offerit to her. “Madam,” and compellinghis eyes to brave hers, he slightly frowned, “yourshare in the Aurora mine should pay you enough in dividendsthe next season or two to refund all that has beenexpended on this project.”

“My share in the Aurora mine?” she repeated.“But I see, I see. You have been malignedinto giving me the interest David conveyed to you.Oh, Mr. Banks told me about that. How you wereattacked at the trial; the use that was made of thatIndian story in the magazine; that monstrous editorialnote.”

Tisdale smiled. “That had nothing to dowith it. This deed was drawn last year as soonas I reached Washington. David knew the valueof the Aurora. That is the reason he risked anotherwinter there, in the face of—all—that threatened him. And when he felt the fightwas going against him, he turned his interest overto me, not only as security on the small loan I advancedto him, but because I was his partner, and he couldtrust me to finish, his development work and put themine on a paying basis. That is accomplished.There is no reason now that I should not transfer hisshare back to you.”

He rose to give her the deed, and she took it withreluctance and glanced it over. “I thinkit is arranged about as David would have wished,”he added. “He had confidence in Foster.”

She looked up. “Mr. Foster knows how Iregard the matter. I told him I would not acceptan interest in the Aurora mine. I said all thegold in Alaska could not compensate you for—whatyou did. Besides, I do not believe as you do,Mr. Tisdale. I think David meant his share shouldbe finally yours.”

Hollis was silent. He stood looking off againover Cerberus to the loftier Chelan peaks. Fora moment she sat regarding his broad back; her liptrembled a little, and a tenderness, welling from depthsof compassion, brimmed her eyes. “You seeI cannot possibly accept it,” she said, androse to return the deed to him.

She had forgotten the photograph, which dropped fromher lap, and Tisdale stooped to pick it up. Itwas lying face upward on the floor, and he saw itwas the picture of a child; then involuntarily he stoppedto scan it, and it came over him this small face,so beautifully molded, so full of intelligence andcharm, was a reproduction of Weatherbee in miniature;yet retouched by a blend of the mother; her eyes underDavid’s level brows. He put the picturein her hand and an unspoken question flashed in thelook that met hers.

Since he had not relieved her of the deed, she laidit down on the secretary to take the photograph.

“This is a picture of little Silva,” shesaid. “It would have made a differenceabout the share in the Aurora if he had lived.He must have been provided for. David would haveseen to that.”

“There was a child!” His voice rang softlylike a vibrant string. “You spoke of himthat night you were lost above Scenic Springs, butI thought it was a fancy of delirium. It seemedincredible that David should not have told me if hehad a son.”

She did not answer directly, but nodded a little andmoved back to her chair.

“He was christened Silva Falconer, for my mother’sfather and mine,” she said. “Theyboth were greatly disappointed in not having a son.I am going to tell you about him, only it will bea long story; please be seated. And it wouldbe easier if you would not look at me.”

She waited while he settled again in his chair andturned his eyes to the blue mountain tops. Shewas still able to see his face. “Silva wasover six months old when this photograph was taken,”she began. “It was lost, with the letterto David that enclosed it, on some terrible Alaskatrail. Afterwards, when the mailbag was recoveredand the letter was returned to me through the dead-letteroffice, two years had passed, and our little boy was—gone.You must understand I expected David back that firstwinter, and when word came that his expedition to theinterior had failed, and he had arranged to stay inthe north in order to make an early start in the followingspring, I did not want to spoil his plans. SoI answered as gayly as I could and told him it wouldgive me an opportunity to make a long visit home toCalifornia. I went far south to Jacinta and Carlos.They were caretakers at the old hacienda. My motherhad managed that, with the people who bought the rancheriaand built the hotel and sanitarium. Jacinta hadbeen her nurse and mine. She was very experienced.But Silva was born lame. He could not use hislower limbs. A great specialist, who came tothe hotel, said he might possibly recover under treatment,but if he should not in a year or two, certain cordsmust be cut to allow him to sit in a wheel chair,and in that case I must give up hope he would everwalk. But—the treatment was very painful—Jacintacould not bear to— torture him; I couldnot afford a trained nurse; so—I did everything.He was the dearest baby; so lovable. He neverwas cross, but he used to nestle his cheek in my neckand explain how it hurt and coax me not to. Notin words, but I understood—every sound.And he understood me, I know. ‘You aregoing to blame me, by and by, if I stop,’ I wouldsay, over and over; ‘you are going to blameme for bringing you into the world.’”

Her voice broke; her breast labored with short, quickbreaths, as though she were climbing some sharp ascent.Tisdale did not look at her; his face stirred andsettled in grim lines.

“I could not write all this about our baby,”she went on, “and I told myself if the treatmentfailed it would be soon enough for David to know ofSilva when he came home. There was nothing hecould do, and to share my anxiety might hamper himin his work. He wrote glowingly of the new placerhe had discovered, and that was a relief to me, forI was obliged to ask him to send me a good deal ofmoney,—the specialist’s account hadbeen so large. I believed he would start southwhen the Alaska season closed, for he had writtenI might expect him then, with his pockets full of golddust, and I made my letters entertaining—ortried to—so he need not feel any need tohurry. At last, one morning in the bath, whenSilva was five months old, he moved his right limbvoluntarily. I shall never forget. It renewedmy courage and my faith. At the end of anothermonth he moved the left one, and after that, gradually,full use came to them both. It was then, whenthe paralysis was mastered, I sent the letter thatwas lost. At the same time David wrote that hemust spend a second winter in Alaska. But beforethat news reached me, my reaction set in. I wasso ill I was carried, unconscious, to the sanitarium.And, while I was there, Silva, who had grown so sturdyand was creeping everywhere, followed his kitten intothe garden, and a little later old Jacinta found himin the arroyo. There was only a little waterrunning but—he had fallen—facedown.”

Tisdale rose. Meeting her look, the emotion thatwas the surface stir of shaken depths swept his face.Then, as though to blot out the recollection, shepressed her fingers to her eyes.

“And David was thousands of miles away,”he said. “You braved that alone, like thesoldier you are.”

“When I read David’s letter,” shewent on, “he was winter-bound in the interior.A reply could not have reached him until spring.And meantime Elizabeth Morganstein came with her motherto the hotel. We had been, friends at boarding-school,and she persuaded me to go north to Seattle with them.Later, after the Aquila was launched in thespring, I was invited to join the family on a cruiseup the inside passage and across the top of the Pacificto Prince William Sound. It seemed so much easierto tell David everything than to write, so—Ionly let him know I intended to sail to Valdez withfriends and would go on by mail steamer to Sewardto visit him. That had been his last post-officeaddress, and I believed he expected to be in thatneighborhood when the season opened. But ourstay was lengthened at Juneau, where we were entertainedby acquaintances of Mrs. Feversham’s, and wespent a long time around Taku glacier and the Muir.I missed my steamer connections, and there was notanother boat due within a week. But the weatherwas delightful, and Mr. Morganstein suggested takingme on in the yacht. Then Mrs. Feversham proposeda side trip along Columbia glacier and into Collegefiord. It was all very wonderful to me, and inspiring;the salt air had been a restorative from the start.And I saw no reason to hurry the party. Davidwould understand. So, the second mail steamerpassed us, and finally, when we reached Seward, Davidhad gone back to the interior. The rest—youknow.”

“You mean,” said Tisdale slowly, “youheard about Mrs. Barbour.”

She bowed affirmatively. The color swept in awave to her face; her lashes fell.

“Mrs. Feversham heard about it, how David hadbrought her down from the interior. I saw thecabin he had furnished for her, and she herself, sewingat the window. Her face was beautiful.”

There was a silence, then Hollis said: “Soyou came back on the Aquila to Seattle.But you wrote; you explained about the child?”

She shook her head. “I waited to hear fromDavid first. I did not know, then, that the letterwith Silva’s picture was lost.”

Tisdale squared his shoulders, looking off again tothe snow-peaks above Cerberus.

“Consider!” She rose with an outward movementof her hands, like one groping in the dark for a closeddoor. “It was a terrible mistake, but Idid not know David as you knew him. My father,who was dying, arranged our marriage. I was veryyoung and practically without money in a big city;there was not another relative in the world who caredwhat became of me. And, in any case, even hadI known the meaning of love and marriage, in thathour,—when I was losing him,—Imust have agreed to anything he asked. We hadbeen everything to each other; everything. ButI’ve been a proud woman; sensitive to slight.It was in the blood—both sides. AndI had been taught early to cover my feelings.My father had adored my mother; he used to remindme she was patrician to the finger-tips, and thatI should not wear my heart on my sleeve if I wishedto be like her. And, when I visited my grandfather,Don Silva, in the south, he would say: ’Beatriz,remember the blood of generations of soldiers is bottledin you; carry yourself like the last Gonzales, withsome fortitude.’ So—at Seward—Iremembered.”

Her voice, while she said this, almost failed, butevery word reached Tisdale. He felt, withoutseeing, the something that was appeal yet not appeal,that keyed her whole body and shone like a changinglight and shade in her face. “I told myselfI would not be sacrificed, effaced,” she wenton. “It was my individuality against Fate.Since little Silva was dead, my life was my own toshape as I might. I did not hear from David fora long time; he wrote less and less frequently, morebriefly every year. He never spoke of the baby,and I believed he must have heard through some friendin California of Silva’s death. Nothingwas left to tell. He never spoke of his home-coming,and I did not; I dreaded it too much. Wheneverthe last steamers of the season were due, I nervedmyself to look the passenger lists over; and whenhis name was missing, it was a reprieve. Neithermy father nor my grandfather had believed in divorce;in their eyes it was disgrace. It seemed right,for Silva’s sake, out of the rich placers Davidcontinued to find, he should contribute to my support.So—I lived my life—the best Iwas able. I had many interests, and always onemorning of each week I spent among the children atthe hospital where I had endowed the Silva Weatherbeebed.”

She paused so long that Tisdale turned. She seemedvery tired. The patient lines, fine as a thread,deepened perceptibly at the corners of her mouth.He hurried to save her further explanation. “Fostertold me,” he said. “It was a beautifulmemorial. Sometime I should like to go there withyou. I know you met the first expense of thatendowment with a loan from Miss Morganstein, whichof course you expected to cancel soon, when you hadfound David at Seward. I understand how, whenthe note came into her brother’s hands, youronly chance to meet it at once was through a sale ofthis land. And I have thought since I knew this,that evening aboard the Aquila, when you riskedDon Silva’s ruby, it was to make the yearlypayment at the hospital.”

“Yes, it was. But the option money fromMr. Banks made it possible to meet all my debts.I did not know they were only assumed—byyou. Though, looking back, I wonder I failedto see the truth.”

With this she turned and took up the photograph whichshe had laid on the secretary, and while her glancerested on the picture, Tisdale’s regarded herface. “So,” he said then, “whenthe lost letter came back to you, you kept it; Weatherbeenever knew.”

She looked up. “Yes, I kept it. Bythat time I believed little Silva’s coming andgoing could make little difference to him.”

“And you went on believing all you had heardat Seward?”

She bowed again affirmatively. “Until youtold me the true story about Mrs. Barbour that nighton the mountain road. I know now that once hemust have loved me, as you believed. This house,which is built so nearly like the old hacienda whereI was born, must have been planned for me. But,afterwards, when he thought I had failed him, whenhe contrasted me with Mrs. Barbour, her devotion toher husband, it was different.”

She laid the photograph down again to draw the tinbox forward. The letters were on the desk withDavid’s watch, but there still remained a calf-boundnotebook, such as surveyors use in field work.It fitted snugly enough for a false bottom, and shewas obliged to reverse the box to remove it, pryingslightly with a paper-knife. Tisdale’s namewas lettered across the cover, and the first pageswere written in his clear, fine draughtsman’shand; then the characters changed to Weatherbee’s.She turned to the last ones.

“This is a book you left among some old magazinesat David’s camp,” she explained.“He carried it with him until he discovered theAurora. He began to use it as a sort of diary.Sometime you will want to read it all, but pleaseread these last notes and this letter now.”

She waited a moment, then as he took up the letterand began to unfold it, she turned and went out intothe patio.

The letter was from Lilias Barbour. It was friendly,earnest, full of her child and a gentle solicitudefor Weatherbee. Hollis read it through twice,slowly. The last paragraph he went over a thirdtime. “You are staying too long in thatbleak country,”—so it ran. “Comeback to the States, at least for a winter. Ifyou do not, in the spring, Bee and I are going toAlaska to learn the reason. We owe it to you.”

The date was the end of August, of the same year Davidhad written that final letter which reached him thefollowing spring at Nome. But the date on theopen page of the notebook was the fifteenth of Januaryof that winter, his last at the Aurora mine.

“Last night I dreamed of Beatriz,” itbegan. “I thought I went down to Sewardto meet her, and when the steamer came, I saw her standingon the forward deck, waving her hand gaily and smilingjust as she did that day I left her at Seattle solong ago. Then, as the ship came alongside thedock, and she walked down the gangway, and I took herhand to kiss her, her face suddenly changed.She was not Beatriz; she was Lilias. My God, ifit had been Lilias! Why, she would be here now,she and little Bee, filling this frozen cabin withsummer.”

The final date was two months later.

“Still snowing,” it ran. “Snowing.God, how I want to break away from this hole.Get out somewhere, where men are alive and doing things.Nothing is moving here but the snow and those twoblack buttes out there. They keep crowding closerthrough the smother, watching everything I do.I’ve warned them to keep back. They must,or I’ll blow them off the face of the earth.Oh, I’ll do it, if it takes all that’sleft of the dynamite. I won’t have themthreatening Lilias when she comes. She is coming;she said she would, unless I went out to the States.And I can’t go; I haven’t heard from Tisdale.I never have told her about those buttes. It’sunusual; she might not believe it; she would worryand think, perhaps, I am growing like Barbour.God! Suppose I am. Suppose she should comeup here in this wilderness to find me a wreck likehim. She must not come. I’ve got toprevent it. But I’ve offered my half interestin the Aurora to Tisdale. He will take it.He never failed me yet.”

Tisdale closed the book and laid it down. Furrowsseamed his face, changing, re-forming, to the innerupheaval. After awhile, he lifted Weatherbee’swatch from the desk and mechanically pressed the spring.The lower case opened, but the picture he rememberedwas not there. In its place was the face of theother child, his namesake, “Bee.”

Out in the patio the pool rippled ceaselessly; thefountain threw its silver ribbon of spray, and Beatrizwaited, listening, with her eyes turned to the roomshe had left. At last she heard his step.It was the tread of a man whose decision was made.She sank down on the curb of the basin near one ofthe palms. Behind her an open door, creaking inthe light wind, swung wide, and beyond it the upperflume stretched back to the natural reservoir whereshe had been imprisoned by the fallen pine tree.His glance, as he crossed the court, moved from herthrough this door and back to her face.

“You were right,” he said. “Butit would have been different if David had known abouthis child. His great heart was starved.”

She was silent. Her glance fell to the fountain.A ray of sunshine slanting across it formed a rainbow.

“But my mistake was greater than yours,”he went on, and his voice struck its minor chord;“I have no excuse for throwing away those fourdays. I never can repair that, but I pledge myselfto make you forget my injustice to you.”

At this she rose. “You were not unjust—knowingDavid as you did. You taught me how fine, howgreat he was. Silva—would have beenproud of his name.”

There was another silence. Tisdale looked offa*gain through the open door to the distant basin,and her glance returned to the fountain. “See!”she exclaimed. “A double rainbow!”

“Fate is with us again,” he replied.“She’s promising a better fight. Butthere is one debt more, soldier,” and, catchingher swift look, he saw the sparkles break softly inher eyes. “My ship sails for Alaska thetenth; I shall stay indefinitely, and I want you topay me—in full—before I go.”

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